The Casebook of S Leonhart
by Lady Karai
Summary: For the StrifeHart Kink Meme. The adventures of Mr. S. Leonhart as told by his companion Mr. C. Strife. Sherlock Holmes AU.
1. Introduction

**The Casebook of S. Leonhart**

**Description: **For the StrifeHart Kink Meme. The adventures of Mr. S. Leonhart as told by his companion Mr. C. Strife. Sherlock Holmes AU.

**Disclaimer: **Square-Enix owns the characters. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the plots and the character guidelines. Someone on the meme owns the original idea. And me? I simply own the words, nothing else.

* * *

**Introduction**

After much thought and arguing with myself, I have decided to write down an account of my experiences in the past year with a certain gentleman by the name of Leonhart. I use the term "gentleman" loosely since, as my readers will certainly discover, Leonhart hardly possesses the refined demeanor usually associated with the term. Regardless, he is a fine man, unlike any I have ever encountered, and thus I feel his talents and achievements should be revealed to the world. I fully realize he will be furious with me for doing this, but I am more than willing to take my chances with his anger.

I suppose the first thing I should do is explain a bit about myself. I grew up in the military town of Hollow Bastion and, like many of its sons, I joined the army at a young age. I, like many others, had high hopes of joining the elite squadron known as SOLDIER and even took the initial exam, but when it became apparent that I would rise no higher than foot soldier, I quit and looked for a different way to live my life. While in the army, I had the opportunity to study subjects that my previous rudimentary education had lacked, and I discovered I had an interest in, and a talent for, biology and medical science. I continued my studies in private while I worked off and on as a mercenary, and by the time I was hired by a certain semi-famous renegade group, I had learned enough to start my own practice should I wish. I had planned to start a side-career as a battlefield medic or a civilian doctor specializing in monster wounds when the group I worked for had to be quickly disbanded due to a security breach. In short, we fled, and that's how I found myself arriving in Traverse Town with only a couple of suitcases of possessions, my sword, and a head full of unused knowledge.

Thanks to a friend at my aforementioned job, I had a destination once I disembarked the Gummi Ship and stepped into this overcrowded city. Had I not, I'm sure I would have wandered the winding streets for weeks, completely lost, longing for the sharp, geometric setup of my hometown. As it was, it took me a good thirty minutes longer than it should have to find the correct house, and by the time I got there, I was less than pleased. The woman who opened the door, however, didn't seem to mind my scowl and smiled at me prettily.

"Mr. Strife?" she asked after bright green eyes had taken in my suitcases and my travel-worn appearance. "I'm Aerith Gainsborough. Please come in." She held the door open for me, politely ignoring the fact that I had done nothing but grunt at her in response.

Once I had maneuvered myself into the house, Miss Gainsborough took the lead and guided me up the stairs towards, I assumed, the rooms I would be renting from her. She kept up a smooth flow of words, pointing out the dining room and kitchen on the first floor and describing other aspects of the house, but I found her voice to be calming and pleasant. By the time we had ascended to the third floor, the second being where she herself resided, I had lost a good deal of my irritation and was actually considering speaking myself, if only to thank her for her hospitality on such short notice.

Before I could say a word, however, a gunshot rang out from behind a closed door, causing me to drop my luggage and instinctively reach for the sword on my back. My mind raced with dozens of possibilities ranging from burglary to murder, and I was torn between charging in to investigate and staying back to protect the woman beside me. She had jumped at the sound as well, but, to my great surprise, she recovered almost instantly, placed her hands on her hips for a moment and sighed, and then walked straight up to the offending door and knocked loudly.

"Mr. Leonhart!" she called, sounding more put-out than frightened.

The door swung open almost immediately, releasing a small cloud of gunpowder smoke and revealing a tall, disheveled-looking man in a white shirt and dark trousers. His emotionless eyes stared down at the woman for half a second, then slid to me, and I suddenly found myself staring at the unfriendly end of a sword nearly as long as my own which, I noted, was still smoking faintly. My own sword came off my back in an instant, and I immediately had my blade at his throat even as his threatened to slice open mine.

"Now none of that!" Miss Gainsborough scolded, shocking me yet again at how calm she was at this moment. "I will not have fighting in this house. I have warned you before, Mr. Leonhart, that if you cannot behave yourself, I will put you out immediately. The same goes for you, Mr. Strife," she added, turning to me with a chastising expression. "I don't care what you do outside of these walls, but while you are in them, you will act like gentlemen."

Something like amusement flickered in the empty gray eyes that stared into mine, and the blade the other held retreated. "My apologies, Gainsborough," the man, Leonhart, said in a low, even tone. "It won't happen again."

The woman sighed at him. "If I had a single munny for every time I've heard that …" she remarked lightly. Then, as I slowly lowered my own sword, she asked with a renewed frown, "You've put a new hole in the wall, haven't you?"

Finally, those cold eyes, which were split by an ugly-looking scar across the bridge of his nose, released me and turned to regard the female before him. "I said I'd pay you for the repairs," he replied to her obvious complaint.

"I would _prefer_ that you discharge your firearms _outside_ like everyone else," she retorted, but when he did nothing but stare at her, she sighed again and appeared to let it go. "This is Mr. Strife," she said with a gesture towards me. "He will be occupying the rooms across from yours from today on. Mr. Strife, this is Mr. Leonhart, my other lodger."

Still extremely wary of this man, who I had begun to believe was quite possibly insane, I nodded once in greeting. He simply fixed that unnerving stare on me once again and stated, "Your SOLDIER friend would disapprove of your recent actions, mercenary renegade."

To say that I panicked would be an understatement of the worst kind. I damn near dropped my sword I was so shocked, and when I had recovered enough, I placed the blade back against that smooth throat as quick as lightning. To be honest, I was less worried about the fact that he seemed to know about the incident in Hollow Bastion than I was about the other secret of mine of which he also seemed to be aware.

"How the _hell_ do you know about Zack?" I growled.

Leonhart had the gall to smirk at me, and I nearly decapitated him right there. Instead, I let him speak, and my anger slowly turned to wonder as the words passed his lips. "Your sword has a special design on the blade near the hilt, proclaiming both the maker and the one for whom it was made. That weaponsmith is highly sought after in Hollow Bastion and subsequently only sells to high-ranking SOLDIERs. Each of his weapons is engraved with his own personal seal, but few who buy the weapons realize that he also weaves the initials of the buyer into the design. The initials on that sword are 'Z.F.'. Since your name is Strife, that sword was not made for you. You received it from Z.F., so therefore I concluded that he was a friend.

"You yourself are not in SOLDIER although you did take the exam and even passed far enough to undergo the Mako testing. The latter is easily deduced from your eyes while the former is deduced from the fact that you have that sword at all. If you were in SOLDIER, or in fact in the army at all, your superior officers would recognize that blade by its maker if not by its owner and take it from you.

"As for your recent actions, your shoes still carry traces of the unique dirt found in the Crystal Fissure where several of Hollow Bastion's Mako reactors reside. This morning, there was a report on a failed bombing attempt on one of the reactors by the renegade group AVALANCHE. Based on your shoes, the fact that Gainsborough has a friend in that group, and the fact that you have arrived here with few possessions, I concluded that you were involved in the attempted bombing and have fled here for temporary safety."

By the time he finished speaking, the tip of my sword was resting against the ground, and my mouth was hanging open. All of his mental steps made complete sense, but the fact that he had made them, that he had noticed those small details in the first place, left me completely dumbfounded. A child could have pushed me down the stairs at that moment.

"You've have to excuse Mr. Leonhart," Miss Gainsborough eventually said. "It's his little hobby, rather like playing the piano at all hours of the night and shooting holes in walls." She frowned at him again, to which he responded by shrugging and turning away. Returning her attention to me, she motioned to my bags and said. "Well, Mr. Strife, if you follow me, we can get you settled into your --"

"Wait!" I interrupted, holding out my free hand to the man who had begun to shut his door again. Leonhart paused, and when he turned to me, I asked, "How did you know that Zack is dead?"

That smirk appeared again, although this time it was softer, almost sympathetic. "I didn't," he answered. "I merely said he wouldn't approve of your actions. You filled the rest in yourself." He stepped fully into his room and closed the door behind him.

And that, dear readers, is how I was first introduced to Mr. Leonhart, the eccentric, aggravating, fascinating man who would soon lead me into many fantastic adventures and who would change my life forever afterwards.


	2. Case 1: The Red Headed League

**The Casebook of S. Leonhart**

**Description: **For the StrifeHart Kink Meme. The adventures of Mr. S. Leonhart as told by his companion Mr. C. Strife. Sherlock Holmes AU.

**Disclaimer: **Square-Enix owns the characters. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the plots and the character guidelines. Someone on the meme owns the original idea. And me? I simply own the words, nothing else.

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**Case #1: The Red-Headed League**

I had been living in Traverse Town for three weeks when it first became apparent what my neighbor Leonhart did for a living. Before then, I had seen very little of the man. I spent my days pounding the pavement, looking for places where I might set up a medical office as well as sponsors who might be willing to finance a young up-and-coming doctor with my specialties. Leonhart, for all I knew, spent all of his time locked up in his rooms, only emerging for meals and only then when Miss Gainsborough personally dragged him out and down to the dining room. He said nothing to either of us during these times, proving to be even less socially inclined than I am. Miss Gainsborough took our silences in stride, providing all of the conversation herself in her gentle, calming voice.

Irritatingly enough, while I saw very little of my neighbor during these weeks, I heard quite a bit from him. As my landlady had warned, the man played piano at all hours, usually ungodly ones. The music was almost always atonal, mood pieces more than actual songs, and the mood they reflected was nearly always depressed or angry. In this, it matched my own moods well, not being particularly happy with being awakened at three in the morning. However, like Miss Gainsborough, I suffered in silence since the one time I did complain I was met with nothing but a steely, silent stare for the entirety of my short speech.

The other oddity I noted during this time, one that would become rather important in short order, was that while Leonhart rarely went out, he frequently received visitors. In particular, three teenage girls -- street waifs by the look of them -- visited several times a week, sometimes alone, sometimes together. I would have suspected something lurid if not for the fact that the girls frequently greeted Miss Gainsborough as they came and left. While I could easily see a lunatic like Leonhart taking advantage of young women, I could not believe my sweet landlady would tolerate such a thing under her roof.

I, unfortunately, had plenty of opportunity to observe these things about my neighbor as, even after three weeks, I had had no luck obtaining a means of employment for myself. I knew I could always fall back on my mercenary skills if necessary, but considering the fact that I was supposed to be in hiding, I had decided early on that I would do so only as a last resort. By the beginning of my fourth week in Traverse Town, I was beginning to think that I may be pushed into it after all, but thankfully, Fate intervened.

We were sitting at breakfast, the three of us eating and Miss Gainsborough providing simple conversation, when we heard the front door to the house bang open and someone come barreling inside.

"Leee-oon!" a female voice crowed moments before one of the teenaged girls burst into the room in a flurry of smiles and clacking beads. "Here you are!" she proclaimed triumphantly. "I brought you a present!"

"Rikku," Miss Gainsborough chastised although she could not hide her smile, "we are still breakfasting. You should have waited."

"Sorry, Miss Aerith," the girl, Rikku, replied with little obvious repentance, "no can do. This is important." She lifted a hand and pointed one finger at Leonhart who had not so much as raised his eyes to look at her. "Don't move, Leon. I'll be right back." With that, she ducked into the hall, and a moment later we heard her arguing with a man in the hallway, apparently trying to convince him that it was acceptable to invade a perfect stranger's dining room in the middle of a meal.

Finally, Leonhart reacted, putting down his silverware and pushing his chair back in preparation to rise. In his usual somber, almost-bored tone, he asked, "May I use the front room, Gainsborough?"

"Of course," the woman replied immediately. "Shall I bring in some coffee?"

"Please, but only two cups. Rikku has enough energy already."

She laughed in reply and rose to prepare the drinks as he moved to the door and then exited, leaving me alone at the table with an expression of confusion on my face. I had mostly finished my breakfast by then, so I quickly rose and followed my landlady into the kitchen, carrying my dishes as an excuse to enter her domain.

Apparently, it was not good enough, for she scowled lightly at me as soon as she saw me. "Mr. Strife," she scolded, "paying lodgers need not participate in the housework. I told you so when you arrived."

"Ah, yes," I faltered under her sharp green gaze. "I just … I thought I might … well …"

Her eyes softened at my obvious discomfort. "Didn't want to be left alone at the table?" she asked gently, reading my mind. When I nodded, she smiled and took the dishes from my hands. She said nothing else, but her smile gave me the permission I needed to return to the dining room and do the same with first her dishes and then Leonhart's.

It was during this third trip of mine to the kitchen when we were interrupted yet again by the waifish girl who had cut short our breakfast. She burst into the kitchen, causing me to wonder if she was even capable of entering a room quietly, and cried to the woman beside me, "Aerith! Leon says you should come listen. I've finally found him a keeper!" She grinned at this last statement and puffed up her chest like a rooster.

"Really?" Miss Gainsborough replied with polite excitement. "That's wonderful, Rikku. I'll be right there."

The girl nodded and bounded off, her beaded braids clacking loudly. Miss Gainsborough had just finished putting the coffee together and now placed a third cup on the tray, presumably for herself. "Would you like to join us, Mr. Strife?" she asked, reaching for a fourth cup.

The invitation surprised me, but, while I was certainly curious as to what was going on, I was uncertain whether she had the authority to offer it.

"What exactly would I be joining?" I asked carefully. "Isn't Mr. Leonhart having a private meeting?"

"Of sorts," my landlady replied with a smile, "but he doesn't mind observers as long as we're quiet." The fourth cup clanked quietly onto the tray, and she lifted the entire assemblage into her hands. "Mr. Leonhart is what you might call a private consulting detective."

"A detective?" I echoed, remembering our first meeting and the long string of facts he had gleaned from merely my appearance. That obsessive attention to detail suddenly took on new meaning.

"Mmhmm," Miss Gainsborough replied, moving to the door with me on her heels. "He calls himself a collector of strange and interesting stories, but what he really does is solve mysteries. He knows I like to hear them as well, so when he has a particularly interesting one, he invites me in to listen. I'm sure he won't mind if you come as well."

"And the girls?" I asked as we walked down the hallway towards the front room. I quickened my steps a bit so I could get the door for her.

"Yuna, Rikku, and Paine search the streets for cases for him," she answered my question. "He doesn't advertise or celebrate his successes, so he isn't well-known. The girls bring him the problems he needs in exchange for the money they need."

I would have asked more, but we had reached our destination and our conversation was forced to end as I opened the door. As it swung open, the three occupants of the room looked up, and one of them jumped to his feet.

"Ah, Gainsborough!" he smiled, swooping in to take the tray from her. "Come in! Come in! Have a seat!"

"Thank you, Mr. Leonhart," she replied politely. "May Mr. Strife join us as well?"

"Of course!" That smile turned to me briefly before disappearing as the man turned away. "Mr. DiMaggio," he said, addressing the second man in the room, "you don't mind the extra company, do you?"

"Nah," the man replied easily. He was rather large, muscular, and had an impressive shock of fiery red hair that stood straight up from his forehead. "It's okay with me, ya?"

"Good." Nodding happily, Leonhart turned to the task of pouring coffee while Miss Gainsborough delicately lowered herself into a seat.

As for me, I had not moved a muscle since opening the door. The shock had completely paralyzed me. Seeing Leonhart smile, indeed seeing him show any emotion at all, had me worrying that I had perhaps gone mad. If not I, then certainly Leonhart had and Miss Gainsborough too for not noticing this wild change in the man's personality.

"Mr. Strife?" the woman questioned upon noticing that I still stood in the hall.

Her voice woke me from my daze and I would have turned at that moment and fled had not Leonhart decided to take matters into his own hands. He rushed me, actually _leaping_ over the couch that stood in his way, and grabbed me by the forearm.

"Come in, Strife," he ordered, and in spite of his smile, his tone brooked no argument. "Sit. Listen. I promise you will not be disappointed." His grip firm, he led me to a chair and deposited me within it before turning back to his guest. "This," he said, introducing the man to us all, "is Mr. Wakka DiMaggio. He is, as you can see, a native of the Destiny Islands, plays blitzball and at one time played professionally, and has at some point in the last five years been to Atlantica, most likely to play a tournament there."

I most certainly could not see at all and would have suspected DiMaggio of providing Leonhart with those facts had the man not straightened suddenly and stared in open-mouthed shock. "How in Yevon's name did you know that?" he demanded. "I didn't tell ya any of that stuff."

Leonhart smirked, clearly pleased with himself, yet he did not answer. Instead, he turned to Miss Gainsborough who was gazing at DiMaggio with her head on one side. After a moment of silence, she began to explain for him in uncertain, halting tones.

"The accent gives away where he's from, and the mention of Yevon certainly confirms it. The blitzball … well, blitzball _is_ very popular on the Islands, but it's not like you to make guesses so …" Her eyes roamed slowly over DiMaggio's form, then suddenly lit up with realization. "Ah! The pendant!"

The smile Leonhart bestowed on her was one of a teacher to a favorite student. "Indeed," he said. "Very good."

My eyes immediately searched for the piece of jewelry in question, and I found it hanging around the man's neck, dangling from a thin silver chain. It was a replica of the trophy awarded to the winner of the annual international blitzball tournament. While having the necklace did not guarantee the man played, as any fan could purchase a similar piece, the base of the trophy had a year engraved on it, suggesting it commemorated a particular season. It still seemed like a guess to me, but I supposed that to someone like Leonhart who made such observations on a regular basis, evidence like that was enough to consider it a fact.

"What about Atlantica?" Rikku piped after a moment of silence.

Leonhart looked first to Miss Gainsborough, but upon receiving a shake of her head in the negative, he answered the question himself. "The tattoo on his right bicep," he stated as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Only the men of Atlantica know how to tint the skin that delicate shade of blue. I know he received it within the past five years because that particular design was created to celebrate their young prince's coming of age, five years ago."

My landlady sighed in mild exasperation. Shaking her head, she complained, "Just once I'd like your observations to not depend on tattoos, tobacco ash, or dirt."

"But then he wouldn't be Leon, would he?" Rikku laughed.

The man smirked smugly, not even trying to hide his enjoyment of the attention. If he had been a woman, I believe he would have preened. Turning back to the coffee, he regained control of the conversation by saying, "In addition to these things I mentioned, Mr. DiMaggio is also in possession of a very interesting story, only a part of which he has shared with me. If you would be willing to repeat what you have already said and reveal the rest now … ?" Letting the rest of the question fade away into the air, he instead politely offered a full cup on a saucer to our guest.

The red-headed man shook himself from his lingering shock and gave us all a warm smile. "Sure," he said brightly. He took the offered cup by itself, leaving Leonhart to stare surprised at the saucer for a moment before replacing it on the tray with a mild grin. "Well," DiMaggio began, "like I told Mr. Leonhart, I own the sports' equipment business over in the Second District. My wife, Lulu, she used to help me run the place, but we had our first baby about half a year ago, so now she stays home with him and I have an assistant."

"Congratulations," Miss Gainsborough interjected with genuine happiness.

"Thanks!" he grinned at her. "He's a real cute one, ya? Looks just like his momma, 'cept for his hair which is red like mine."

"And which," Leonhart interrupted before DiMaggio could lose himself in fatherly pride, "is the reason for your visit, correct?" He handed a cup of coffee to our landlady who took it with a conspiratorial wink.

"Uh, yeah," the big man replied, deflating a little at being thwarted. "So, okay, back on track: About three months ago, there was this ad in the paper, ya? I wish I still had it so I could show ya, but I don't. It was a notice that there was a space open in this thing called the Red-Headed League, and it said that any red-headed man over the age of twenty could apply. Well, I'll be the first to tell ya that the islands are a bit on the back-water side, but I've been all over the place because of blitzball and I'd never heard of it. I thought it was all a big joke, ya, especially considering how much money they were offering."

"And that was?" Leonhart inquired, handing me my cup.

"Five hundred munny a week," DiMaggio answered, "and believe me, Mr. Leonhart, that may not sound like much to someone who can afford a posh First District apartment like ya, but to me, well, that's an awful lot of diapers."

"Of course. I understand," Leonhart soothed in a manner that actually seemed genuine. His own cup of coffee now firmly in hand, he ignored Rikku's little pout of disappointment and settled down comfortably into his seat. "However, joke though you thought it was, you still applied?"

DiMaggio nodded. "Ya. Mark talked me into it. Mark's my assistant, ya? Mark Spalding is his name. He assured me that he could watch the store while I was gone and told me that all I'd be losing would be the fare to Sunset Station over in Twilight Town, so I decided I might as well give it a shot. Go see if it was legitimate at least, ya?"

He paused to drain his coffee and put the cup aside, then leaned back in his chair a bit and looked up to the ceiling as if collecting his thoughts. Realizing that he had quite a bit to say, I made myself comfortable in my own chair and prepared myself to listen to the interesting story that had been promised to us. A moment passed in silence, and then DiMaggio lowered his head with a small smile and continued.

"When the day came, I went on over to Sunset Station and to the address that had been printed in the ad. It was one of those office buildings that ya see everywhere, nothing special about it. Nothing that is 'cept for all the red-headed guys pouring out of it. I don't think I've seen that much red in my entire life, ya, and I doubt I ever will again. The line was so long it actually stretched out the door and down the street. Well, when I saw it I thought about turning around and going home. Then I thought that Lulu would probably yell at me for wasting the train ticket. Plus, the line was moving pretty quickly, so I decided to go ahead and stay.

"The closer I got to the door, the more confident I felt, ya? It was obvious that the people inside weren't bothering with interviews or anything. They were just taking a look and then booting people out. A couple people coming out had hair as bright as mine, but most were either a dull color, more brown than red, or obviously dye. So I stayed in line, figuring that even if I didn't have much of a chance, I had a better chance than most of the guys there.

"Eventually, I got inside, ya, and got to the point where I could see the door. It was pretty much how I figured it was with guys walking in and then walking right back out. Some of 'em didn't even make it in before whoever was in there yelled out a 'No' and sent 'em away. I watched a kid with orange hair walk by looking all disappointed, and I figured that would be me in a few more minutes. But I tried to keep thinking positive while I waited for it to be my turn.

"When I finally got to the front of the line, the guy who was manning the door opened it for me and ushered me inside. I was surprised by how bare the room was. There was a desk along one wall with an extra chair in front of it, a bookcase with almost nothing in it, and that was it, ya. The man behind the desk, though, was even more surprising, and I suddenly realized why he was sending people away with only a glance. His hair was as red as a kid's toy fire engine. No joke, ya. It put mine and everyone else's in line to shame.

"After I walked in, the guy just stared at me for a few seconds over the top of his reading glasses. Then he asked me for my name and, when I had told him, said his was Quinton Ross. He told me mine was the best color he had seen all day, ya, and asked me to sit down and fill out the application. While I did, he told me all about the League, how it started, and what I would have to do as a member. Apparently the League was founded by an eccentric Twilight Town millionaire who, since he didn't have any kids of his own, decided to leave his fortune to guys who had red hair like he did. Ross joked that the guy was probably a nutter, but as long as we got some extra munny out of it, who were we to complain, ya?"

Suddenly, DiMaggio leaned forward with his hands on his knees. "Now, here's the thing, Mr. Leonhart," he said intently. "He told me that all I had to do to collect my munny was show up every day between ten and two and copy out whatever books or files happened to be on the bookcase. Five _hundred_ a week, just to sit in a room and copy stuff! Now, I know I'm not the brightest man in the world, but even I know that if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is and this sounded way too good to ever be true."

"And yet," Leonhart interjected quietly, "you still went back."

DiMaggio sat back and scratched at his fiery hair. "Ya," he admitted. "Ya, I did. Mark convinced me again. And when I showed up on the first day, Ross was there just like he said he would be and set me up with everything I would need. And at the end of the week, he was there with my five hundred. And when I finally had that munny in my hand, I thought to myself that maybe it wasn't too good to be true after all, ya? For the next two months or so, I went into Twilight Town five times a week, spent four hours copying out brochures, Gummi schedules, short manuals, things like that, and then went home, sometimes five hundred munny richer. It was definitely weird, but it was easy, it was good money, and in a way, it was kind of fun, ya?"

He shook his head lightly and, with a shrug and a smile, said, "And then it was over. I showed up one day and the office was locked. Ross wasn't there and no one in the building knew where he had gone. No one had heard of the Red-Headed League, neither. The secretary said that Ross had rented the room for personal use. It was like the whole thing had never happened, ya? It completely confused me, so I asked around a bit. That's how Rikku heard about it, and she said I should come talk to ya, Mr. Leonhart, sir, since ya're interested in things like this and super clever, or at least that's what she said."

I slipped my gaze over to Leonhart, expecting to see another smug smile in appreciation of the praise, but found, to my surprise, that the man was frowning slightly in apparent deep thought. When he spoke, his voice was less the cheerful lunatic that had attacked me at the door and more the bored monotone to which I had become accustomed. "Tell me about this assistant of yours," he ordered. "This Mark Spalding. How did you come by him?"

DiMaggio blinked for a moment, either confused by the man's question, his mood swing, or both. "Uh, I ran an advertisement, ya? He answered that."

"Was he the only one who applied?"

"Nah, I had others."

"Why did you choose him?"

"Well, he's friendly and skilled, good with the customers, but … uh …" He scratched at his head again and looked down at the ground with something that looked liked hesitation or guilt. "To tell ya the truth, Mr. Leonhart, he pretty much clinched the job for himself when he offered to work for me for half the salary I was planning on paying. He said he didn't have much work experience so he'd start off at half pay until he had proven himself worthy of the whole thing."

"And has he proven himself to be a worthwhile investment? Do you have any complaints?"

"Nah, I don't really. Like I said, he's good with the customers. The girls love him, ya? Actually," he added with a grin, "I thought _he_ was a girl at first. He's got a really pretty face for a guy, young-looking in spite of how old he is, and his hair is actually this light shade of pink. Really strange, ya, but a very nice guy. No trouble at all. The only complaint I can think to make is that he's taken over my cellar with his photography hobby."

"Photography?" Leonhart's brow quirked slightly, but I doubt I would have noticed it if I hadn't been staring right at him. The sudden intensity that had gripped the man intrigued me, and I found I couldn't take my eyes from that sharp, still profile.

DiMaggio nodded his head at the one-word question and answered, "Ya. On his lunch break or whenever he has any time off, he goes around taking pictures and then shoots down into the cellar to develop 'em. I don't really mind because I don't use that space for anything 'cept storage anyway, ya, but the smell of the developing fluid is too strong for me. Now if I want anything out of there, I have to send Mark down to get it."

"I see." Gray eyes narrowed slightly, their sights set on DiMaggio without really seeing him. "Your wife and child, where are they during the day? Do you by chance reside above the store?"

"Nah, we don't. We have an apartment in the Third District, and they stay there while I'm at work, ya."

"The Third District?" Miss Gainsborough echoed, a hand lifting to her mouth in horror. "Mr. DiMaggio, that is no place for a young family!"

I wasn't about to say so, but I agreed. The Third District of Traverse Town was little more than a den for Heartless. A small section of it, about five blocks worth, had been deemed safe for habitation, but the danger was so very near that only the extremely brave, the extremely poor, or the extremely stupid lived there.

The red-headed store owner hung his head slightly at my landlady's rebuke and shrugged one shoulder. "I know it, ya," he replied sadly, "but we used up almost all we had to get here and to buy the store. The munny I got from the League helped and we almost have enough to move out to the Second District, but we're gonna have to stay there for a while yet. Which leads me to ask you this, Mr. Leonhart." He lifted his head and fixed an anxious gaze on the still man in the chair opposite him. "Rikku said you'd be interested in my story, that you might want to take it on as a case or something, ya? But the thing is, I don't really have the munny to hire you. And really, I'm not so sure I even want someone to solve this thing for me. Nothing bad happened, ya? It was weird, but I'm not hurt or inconvenienced in any way 'cept for the fact that it stopped. I know that you're a detective and all and that this is what you do, but I don't really --"

Leonhart's hand shot up into the air, effectively silencing the other man. A calmer version of the smile he had given earlier slid onto his face as life slowly returned to his eyes. "Mr. DiMaggio," he said soothingly, "do not worry yourself about payment. Regardless of whether or not I take this case, I will require nothing from you. And with that, I give you my deepest thanks and wish you good day. The best of luck to you, your family, and your business in the future." He bolted from his seat, straight as an arrow, and turned his back on all of us. "Gainsborough, please show Mr. DiMaggio out."

Miss Gainsborough lifted a delicate eyebrow at him in response to being spoken to like a secretary, but she rose gracefully and did as she was told. As she led DiMaggio out into the hall and towards the front door, conversing with him politely to ease his shock at being dismissed so abruptly, Rikku leapt from her place and all but hung from Leonhart's tall frame, clinging to one of his arms with both hands.

"Well?" she demanded. "What do you think, Leon? It's worth something, right? Worth a lot, I think. You think so, too, right? Right?" Leonhart did not answer her, but something in his expression made her grin even more fiercely and when he turned to leave the room, she followed with a spring in her step and a little whoop of triumph.

I, for my part, had been left alone again. It was starting to become rather annoying, for while I frequently enjoy being alone, I do not particularly like to be abandoned. Deciding to follow my neighbor rather than my landlady, I rose and exited the room myself. Halfway up the stairs, I was forced to step aside by the girl Rikku who came barreling down with a wide smile on her face and a small pouch clutched in her hands, what I assumed to be her payment. Once it was safe to remove myself from the wall once more, I continued my ascent, not stopping until I reached the third floor and the door to Leonhart's rooms.

To my surprise, the man was busy collecting his large weapon and a small pack of what appeared to be basic medical supplies. "Where are you going?" I asked him without preamble.

His eyes met mine briefly, and I noted they were once again emotionless and cold. "Ah, Strife," he said, ignoring my question as he continued his task. "What did you think of DiMaggio's case?"

"Hardly a case," I answered, deciding not to press the issue for now. "Seemed more like a practical joke to me."

Leonhart smirked slightly at my response. "Five hundred munny a week for slightly over two months? That's four thousand at least, not to mention the cost of the advertisement and the rent of the office space." He paused in his movements, and his eyes met mine. "Rather an expensive practical joke, don't you think?"

"You think it's something more?" I challenged.

"I do," he returned without hesitation. With a strong, graceful movement, he swung his sword over his shoulder and moved out into the hallway with me.

I narrowed my eyes at him and took a step forward to block his passage. "Where are you going?" I asked again, this time determined to get an answer.

Leonhart examined me for a moment with those empty eyes and then, finally, said, "The Third District."

I raised an eyebrow at him, mildly surprised by the answer and how easily I had received it. "To question DiMaggio's wife?" I prodded.

"To kill Heartless," he replied. "And to think." His gaze lifted to a spot over my shoulder and slid out of focus as he added, "A problem like this one should take about three hours to solve, I believe."

This statement stunned me so much that I did not so much as move a muscle when he pushed by me to head for the stairs. I recovered myself rapidly, however, and dashed to my own rooms immediately. My actions must have intrigued him, for he was still on the landing when I returned with my own blade strapped firmly on my back.

"I'm going with you," I announced.

Now it was his turn to narrow his eyes in a disapproving glare. "That is not necessary."

"I don't give a chocobo's feathered ass if it's necessary or not," I shot back, causing those eyes to widen again in surprise. "I'm going with you whether you like it or not." Before he could protest further, I continued, "You're going into battle with a dangerous enemy, and you're telling me that you're not just expecting to be distracted, you're _planning_ on it? That's beyond foolish. It's stupidity."

"Strife, I assure you I am more than capable of taking care of myself. I do _not_ require assistance."

"I'd believe you if I knew you were going to be focused, but you've admitted that you won't be. Do you really think you can _think_ while you're fighting for your life?"

"Battle is the only situation where I _can _think!" Leonhart snarled at me, his dull eyes lighting up with a fierce anger and a stubbornness to match my own. "Fighting clears my mind. It's the only time I can analyze to my full capacity."

"You're insane!" I told him. When he responded with a dismissive grunt and turned away as if to leave, I took the few steps to his side, grabbed him by the shoulder, and spun him around to face me again. "It only takes one!" I near-yelled at him. "One Heartless, one little distraction, one fraction of a second, and suddenly your chest is sliced open and your blood is gushing out and soaking the ground and there's nothing anyone anywhere can do to save you! It doesn't matter how good you are, how many you've killed before now, all it takes is that one that you weren't expecting and you're dead!"

Leonhart stared at me as if I were the insane one, and truly, in a moment of clarity, I would not have been able to blame him. At that moment, however, I was gripping his shoulder with iron fingers and panting lightly to get myself back under control. The whole situation was, I had to admit, a bit ridiculous. I barely knew Leonhart and I didn't like him very much, certainly not enough to care one way or the other about his well-being. Yet a man's past is forever a part of him, and in that moment, all I could think of was my private vow to myself to never again let anyone die at the mercy of Heartless if I could somehow stop it. _Never again_, I kept repeating in my head. _Never again._

A minute of silence passed between us, and neither of us moved. Leonhart simply watched me with those empty eyes of his. Somehow, even though he gave me no indication of such, I knew that he had deduced the meaning behind my outburst. After all, he was an intelligent and observant man, and although my scar did not lie on my skin, it was still visible to anyone who wished to look for it. The logic needed to reach the right conclusion was not difficult. Even so, Leonhart kept the knowledge of his discovery to himself and merely gazed at me until I had calmed down enough to release him and take a step back.

"I'm going with you," I repeated as I did so.

His expression did not change, but he nodded once in acceptance. "Fine," he said, "but if you get in my way or make any noise other than is absolutely necessary, I will chop off your head." His conditions set, he turned and began to descend the stairs without another word. Satisfied, I followed and kept to myself any comments I might have had about his impressive yet empty threat.

For the next three hours, we demolished the dark monsters that have in some way or another managed to invade every city in our land. Leonhart was as good as he claimed and even surprised me by taking some down with bullets from the gun that he had somehow welded to the bottom of his blade. He was, however, obviously distracted as I knew he would be. Several times, I intervened on his behalf. None of the wounds he would have received would have been particularly dire, but the fact remains that he would have been substantially more sliced up than he was had I not been there to prevent the blows from falling. Even with my help and diligence, both of us had sustained several bruises and a few cuts and Leonhart had a rather large one on his arm when he suddenly stopped fighting, turned on his heel, and began striding rapidly towards the entrance to the Second District. Annoyed at being left behind yet again, I quickly dispatched the few remaining enemies we had engaged and hurried to catch up to him.

Ignoring my questions and complaints, the infuriating man continued walking without stop until we were about a block away from what I realized was DiMaggio's sports' equipment shop. There, finally, he paused, his eyes flicking about every which way.

"What the hell?" I griped at him. "You're fricking insane, you know that?" Predictably, he did not answer, so I grumbled to myself a bit more. When I noticed that the wound on his arm was dripping, I informed him, "You're bleeding all over the sidewalk. Come on. Let's go over to that bench and I'll patch you up."

Rather than obey or acknowledge me in any way, Leonhart suddenly darted forward, continuing down the sidewalk with his blade still in his hand even though we were now in a residential area. Cursing, I followed him yet again. Considering where we were, I had thought he would turn into DiMaggio's store, yet he did not slow or even glance at it as he approached. Then, directly in front of its doors, he suddenly staggered, dropping to one knee on the sidewalk. His sword fell with a clatter as he braced his upper body with his uninjured arm. Surprised as I was, it took me a moment to react, and by the time I had dropped down beside him, the door to the shop had opened and a young man had run out to assist us.

"Sir!" the man said, urgently but with gentleness as well. "Are you all right, sir?" He leaned down to help us, and I realized with a small jolt that this was Spalding, DiMaggio's assistant. The man truly did have pink hair and was quite handsome in a delicate way.

"Yes," Leonhart answered, sounding far more tired and hurt than his brisk walk from the Third District would have suggested. "I'll be fine." He lifted his head and gave Spalding a friendly smile that made me forget my questions and shut my mouth immediately. Anyone who had spent even an hour with Leonhart would know that he did _not_ smile like that for any reason. "All I need is a bath, some good food, and a bed," he continued in an exhausted tone. "Do you happen to know, young man, where my companion and I might find a good place to stay for the night?"

"Of course, sir," Spalding replied. He rose to his feet, helping Leonhart rise as he did so, and then proceeded to give directions to the most popular hotel in the Second District. As confused as I was, I held my tongue and instead went to retrieve Leonhart's blade. Once Spalding was finished, Leonhart thanked him warmly and, with an invitation to me to 'come along,' began walking slowly down the street with a slight limp. I walked next to him, carrying both swords and resisting the urge to tell him to hurry his ass up.

The second we turned the corner, Leonhart straightened his shoulders, snatched his sword from my hand, and began striding forward at his previous pace with a satisfied smirk on his lips. Snarling, I bolted to catch up with him and then positioned myself in front of him to force him to stop. "What the _hell_ was that about?" I demanded. I imagine my Mako eyes must have looked particularly frightening in that moment; I certainly was wishing I could use them to burn some answers out of this man.

That damnable smirk did not disappear, but it did soften a bit as Leonhart gazed back at me. He inclined his head towards another bench that sat a short distance away. "I believe you wished to patch me up?" he said quietly with something that almost resembled gentleness. "Will that location suffice?"

Growling, I grabbed him by the elbow and stalked over to the indicated bench, throwing him down on the seat with little care for his injury. He handed me the pack of supplies he had brought and then rolled up his torn sleeve as I sat down next to him and began sorting through the items inside for the ones I wanted. "You're insane," I grumbled to myself. "Acting all weird for no apparent reason. Running away in the middle of a battle."

"I apologize for that," Leonhart interrupted, making me look up in surprise. The smirk had finally left his face, and that empty, blank look that I had seen so much had returned instead. "I left," he explained simply, "because I no longer needed to think."

It took me a minute to understand what he meant by that, but when I did, I gaped at him in surprise. "You mean, you figured it all out?"

"Yes." He sounded bored again, and his gaze roamed out over the street without resting on anything in particular. "Strife," he asked after a moment, "have you placed any of your munny in the McDuck Bank?"

The change of topic confused me, but I have to admit that by that point I was almost getting used to it. "No," I answered, beginning to clean his cut in preparation for bandaging it. "I haven't gotten around to transferring my munny out of Hollow Bastion United yet, not that I have that much to begin with."

Leonhart nodded and leaned back against the bench to make himself more comfortable. "Good," he said softly. "If you had, I would have advised you to remove it immediately."

"Why is that?"

"Tomorrow night the bank will be robbed."

The gauze that I had just cut slipped out of my fingers and fluttered to the ground. "What?" I demanded, staring at him in shock. "How do you know that?"

"Because of the Red-Headed League," he answered. He shut his eyes and inhaled slowly, and I realized that I was finally, _finally_, going to get my explanation.

"From the very beginning, it was obvious to me that the Red-Headed League existed for one purpose: to get Mr. Wakka DiMaggio out of his shop for four hours a day, five days a week. Had his wife lived above the store, I would have suspected an illicit affair, but with her elsewhere it had to be for a different reason. As to who wanted the man gone, I suspected Spalding immediately, and my suspicions were only solidified when I learned he had come for half wages. Spalding wanted that job at any cost, and therefore he made himself as attractive for the position as he could. No businessman, after all, can resist the allure of an employee who will work for next to nothing. When I heard that Spalding is an effeminate man with pink hair, that merely told me the name of the man with whom we were dealing."

"Spalding isn't his real name then?" I asked as I recut and applied the gauze.

"No," Leonhart replied, slowly opening his eyes. "His name is Marluxia Ferguson. He is a petty thief and a con man, specializing in stealing women's hearts and then stealing their fortunes." I laughed shortly at that, and Leonhart smirked a bit in response before he continued, "Mrs. DiMaggio, however, has no fortune and, as I established before, does not reside in the shop during the day, so that left me with the question of why Ferguson wanted to be alone for so much time. The answer lay in the cellar."

"The cellar? You mean the man's photography?"

"Yes, and also no." He tilted his head and watched me wrap the bandage around him as he explained, "The photography was only a cover-up for his real reason for being both in the shop and in the cellar. That reason was also the instigation behind the false League. Now, Strife, what reason can you think of that a criminal man would have to be underground for several hours a day for over two months?"

The answer came to me more easily than I had expected, and I raised my eyes to connect with the gray ones that gazed steadily in my direction. "A tunnel."

Leonhart smiled, a similar expression to the one he had given Gainsborough that morning. "Exactly," he said simply. "But where did the tunnel lead? In what direction did it go? My little collapse that irritated you so much just now answered that question for me."

"How so?"

"When I fell, I dropped my sword, and it clattered onto the sidewalk. No doubt you were unable to hear it being farther away, but the sound had an echo to it, one that would not have been present had there not been a hole beneath the pavement. The tunnel stretches in front of the shop and towards …" He lifted his head and nodded vaguely in the direction from which we had come. "… the McDuck bank."

"And therefore," I finished for him in awe, "you concluded that Ferguson's goal is to rob the bank."

"Yes."

"How do you know he will strike tomorrow night?" I asked.

Leonhart smiled a little at my question. "That," he admitted, "is a partial guess. The tunnel is completed; that I know from the fact that Ferguson and his red-headed accomplice have abandoned their farce with DiMaggio. Today is Friday. Should they rob the bank tomorrow night, no one will discover the theft until Monday, giving them an additional day to escape. It is the most logical day for them to choose."

Astonished and immeasurably impressed, I sat back from my now-completed job and simply gazed at the incredible man beside me. I simply could not fathom how he had taken the ridiculous story we had both heard this morning and unraveled all of its little twisting plots and strange nuances until its insidious core lay before him, all its secrets revealed. That he had done all of this in his head while fighting Heartless made it that much more wonderful. On the day I had met him and then again on that very morning, he had shown me how clever he could be by picking out small details and making deductions from them, but it was not until that moment that I realized how truly amazing he was and what a unique and priceless gift he had been given.

In the silence that had stretched between us, Leonhart took it upon himself to examine my work in regards to his arm. One eyebrow quirked ever so slightly in what I could easily imagine to be admiration. After a moment, he commented, "I must admit to be pleasantly surprised. You are quite skilled at this, Strife."

"It's just a bandage," I scoffed at the praise.

"Yet you did a far better job than I would have," he insisted. His eyes ceased their examination of his arm and lifted to examine me instead. "I don't understand why, with such skill, you remain unemployed."

I shrugged and averted my own eyes, suddenly embarrassed by the scrutiny. "All of my education is either from the army or my own personal study," I admitted. "You can't exactly hang that from a wall."

"That, unfortunately, is true." Those eyes released me and went back to looking over my work. "Perhaps," Leonhart murmured to himself with a small smile, "I should hire you myself." Before I could say anything in reply, he was on his feet, gazing off down the street with that empty, unreadable expression on his face. "Come," he said quietly. "We should go."

Quickly, I packed away the rest of the supplies and then obediently got to my feet as well. "Where are we going?" I asked him as I shouldered the small bag. "To the bank to warn them? Or to the police to let them take over?"

"Neither," Leonhart replied in a voice so low that I almost didn't hear. "We're going home." He began to move forward, his steps slower than his normal brisk pace.

His answer understandably confused me, so I sought clarification as we walked. "You wish to drop off your weapon first or retrieve something?" When he didn't answer, I pressed, "We are going to tell someone, aren't we?"

"No," Leonhart said, and this time it was almost a whisper. "We aren't."

He attempted to continue walking, but I grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him to stop. "We aren't?" I echoed, anger mixing with my severe astonishment. "Leonhart, are you telling me that you're just going to _let_ the bank be robbed?" His continued silence was answer enough for me, and I shoved at his shoulder to spin his unresisting body around to face me. "You can't be serious! Why? Because DiMaggio never formally hired you? Because you aren't getting paid for this? Or is it because you only care about the problem itself? Once you've solved the mystery, once you've figured out all the little details and where they all fit, it's no longer your concern. It's not interesting anymore so you just forget it, never mind that there's a crime about to take place. What if Ferguson were planning a murder instead of a robbery? Would you still ignore it?"

Leonhart flinched at my accusation, but he said nothing and he stubbornly refused to meet my eyes. My anger was boiling by this point, threatening to erupt, and my fingers itched to throttle the man before me. I reined in my desire to commit murder however, tempting though it was, and simply turned away. "Screw it," I told him. "If you're not going to the police, I am."

"No, Strife!" Leonhart's hand was on me in an instant, and I suddenly found myself staring into a face lined with worry and urgency. "You mustn't! If you value your life, you mustn't!"

Open-mouthed, I stared at him. "If I value my life?" I echoed. "Leonhart, what in blazes are you talking about?"

The man before me hung his head to collect his thoughts, the hand on my shoulder tightening ever so slightly. A moment later, however, it dropped and Leonhart lifted his head to gaze out into the street with unseeing, expressionless eyes. "I told you, did I not, that Marluxia Ferguson is a petty thief and a con man?"

"Yes."

"This affair that we have discovered is far larger than his normal scope. It is an intricate plan, one that involves time and investment. It requires at least one accomplice, perhaps more. It is nothing like his usual hasty raids or seductions. I am certain that it is, in fact, not his scheme at all."

I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back on my heels, unsatisfied. "So what?" I asked. "So he's working for someone else at the moment rather than for himself. Why does that mean we can't go to the police?"

Leonhart took his time in answering, and when he did, the words came out slowly as if he were carefully picking each one. "I have several acquaintances who work in the police department. Ferguson has been off of their radar for nearly half a year. There were speculations that he had finally been done in by a protective father or a jealous husband and good riddance to him. I, however, feared that his absence might mean a far more sinister thing, and now, with this business with the League, I am certain I was correct. Ferguson has been recruited by the Organization."

He spoke the word as if it should be accompanied by loud organ music in a minor key, yet to me it meant nothing. "The Organization? What's that?"

Empty gray eyes turned to me and fixed me with their cold stare. "It is, to put it simply, organized crime. Their numbers are few, but located within their ranks are some of the most dangerous men in the world. Their leader in particular is a man of unparalleled cunning and cruelty. In the underworld, he is known simply as The Superior, yet even that alias is whispered by others rather than spoken aloud. To cross him is certain death."

I frowned, unhappy with this new information. "And that's why we're going to let Ferguson do whatever he likes?" I asked. "Because you suspect he's now part of this Organization?"

"I am but one man," Leonhart told me in answer, turning his gaze away. "When one man engages a much larger and stronger force in battle, do you know what they call that, Strife? They call it suicide."

Leonhart's voice was as dull and bored as usual, but I managed to see the hints of sadness that he attempted to hide behind his blank expression. As I looked at that stony profile, I suddenly realized that the man before me was just as frustrated as I was at this situation. He wished, as I did, to prevent this robbery and apprehend Ferguson and his accomplices, but he was unwilling to expose himself to danger, alone as he was. Solving these mysteries, I could see, was not simply a game to him. He wanted to see them through to the end but believed that he could not due to the overwhelming force that stood against him. I had given him far less credit than he deserved.

I knew at once what I must do and resolved to do it even more swiftly. Unsheathing my sword from my back, I stretched it out in front of me as if to examine it and asked strongly, "And what do they call it when two engage?"

Leonhart's eyes swiveled to me, astonishment clearly shining from them. "What?"

"I said," I repeated, repressing a smirk, "what do they call it when two engage? Heroism, perhaps? Bravery, certainly." The man before me opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, I shouldered my blade and ordered, "Hire me, Leonhart. Hire me as your doctor, your bodyguard, whatever you choose. Then you'll be free to do whatever it is you need to do, secure in the knowledge that I have your back. You want to take on the Organization? Let's do it. With your brains and our combined fighting power, it should be no trouble."

For a long minute, Leonhart simply stood and stared at me. When I saw his eyes narrow slightly, however, I knew he was giving my suggestion serious thought. Patiently, I waited for him to make his decision, and I knew I had successfully persuaded him when I watched that little smirk slide slowly into his lips.

"Very well, my mercenary renegade doctor," he murmured with a definite twinkle in his now-vibrant eyes. "Consider yourself hired." He turned on his heel and began walking away, leaving me to catch up a moment later.

"Where are we going?"

"To Traverse Yard. We have work to do."

We most certainly did, but I will not bore my readers with details of the long arguments we had, first with Inspector Highwind of the Yard and then with McDuck, to convince them of the imminent robbery. Eventually, after much debate and a few threats, we were granted a small group of policemen, led by a young female constable named Kisaragi, and permission to conduct a stakeout in the largest of the bank's underground vaults. Kisaragi was pleasant enough and was quite eager to bag Ferguson, although she unfortunately reminded me of Rikku with her tendency to skip and her incessant cheerfulness.

On Saturday night, we met up with Kisaragi and her men and, after leaving all but two to watch DiMaggio's store in case of flight, we descended into the vault for our stakeout. It was without a doubt the most tedious five hours of waiting I have ever experienced. It was cold, dark, the tiled floor and walls were slightly damp, and there was nowhere to sit except on bumpy treasure chests. By one in the morning, Kisaragi was asleep on the only flat chest in the room, her two subordinates were staring at the walls like zombies, and I was cursing myself thoroughly for ever suggesting we go through with this. Only Leonhart seemed unaffected as he leaned against a wall, arms folded and eyes closed, and waited.

Then, we heard it: the soft _clank_ of metal on rock. Instantly, we were all awake and alert, the buzz of adrenaline eradicating all of our fatigue. Leonhart extinguished the only candle we had lit, and we both freed our swords from their sheaths. From the other side of the room, I heard the popping noise of two guns being cocked and a metallic hiss that I assumed had been made by the enormous chakram that Kisaragi had brought with her. The five of us crouched in the dark and waited, listening with pounding hearts as the clanking noise steadily increased in volume.

Perhaps fifteen minutes later, perhaps more, a single shaft of light pierced the darkness of the vault as a piece of the floor fell away. More pieces followed, disappearing into the hole beneath that slowly became revealed as time passed. Light began to spill into the room, and I did my best to stay hidden within the darkness. Nearby, Leonhart did the same, although I caught him once looking my way. When our eyes met, he sent me a grin that was thrillingly feral, and I returned it before focusing once more on our mutual prey.

Eventually, the hole in the floor was large enough for a man to pass through, and soon after, the clanking stopped. A pale, graceful hand appeared from the depths of the hole, then another, and within moments, they had gripped the edge and were pulling up a slender body. Once this person had cleared the hole, he turned around to help a second person out, and that was when we struck.

If Ferguson was surprised to find two rather large and very sharp blades poised inches from his throat, he didn't show it. He simply raised one elegant eyebrow, glanced between Leonhart and me, and sighed. "Well," he drawled, "it looks as if we've been caught. How irritating." Beside him, his accomplice, who was not the red-headed Ross as I thought it might be, was whimpering and whining at having a gun pressed to his forehead. Ferguson scowled and slapped him upside the head. "Shut up, Creeper! You're giving me a headache."

"Marluxia Ferguson," Kisaragi crowed happily, "you are under arrest for the attempted burglary of McDuck bank."

"Yes, yes," he replied, waving a hand imperiously, "I know. I have the right to remain silent and all that." He looked at me and Leonhart again, this time more closely, and recognition soon lit up his eyes. "Ah, I see. You two were the ones from the other day. The wounded sap in front of the store and his mute sidekick."

Considering I was holding the other man at sword-point, the insult slid off of me without effect. Apparently, it was the same for Leonhart, for he smirked lightly and replied, "Indeed."

"Clearly you two are not with the police, for there is no one there intelligent enough to tie their own shoes much less foil my beautiful plan --"

"Hey!"

"-- and so I have to wonder, who are you? You clearly know my name. It would only be polite to offer yours."

Mildly concerned, I flicked my eyes to Leonhart to find him gazing back at me. This was the step that he had feared. Although Ferguson was bound for jail, there was little doubt that word of who had arranged his capture would find its way back to the Organization's ears. This one action might not be enough to bring all of The Superior's fury down on him, but it would put his name out there and bring all of his ensuing actions under scrutiny. It was, if one wished to be dramatic about it, the first step to war.

When I looked at Leonhart, however, I did not see fear or uncertainty. Only confidence and resolve stared back at me from those gray eyes. "My name is Leonhart," he told Ferguson with obvious pride. "And this is my partner, Strife."

"Leonhart," the man repeated, correctly guessing which of us was truly responsible for his capture. "It is a pleasure to meet you, although I wish we could have done so under more favorable circumstances."

By this time, Kisaragi had successfully cuffed the second man and bounded over to Ferguson with a pair for him. "Okay, Marly, hands out and let me put the bracelets on you," she ordered.

Ferguson recoiled immediately and looked at her as if she were diseased. "I beg your pardon, woman?" he cried haughtily. "I realize my current state and attire are not appropriate for my station, but I _am_ a gentleman and expect to be treated as such. I will not subject myself to being manhandled by a common policewoman such as yourself, and you will address me with proper respect."

Kisaragi's face clearly expressed what I felt about this lunatic. She took it all in stride, however, and gave Ferguson a grand, sweeping bow. "My apologies, your highness-ness," she replied with melodramatic dignity. "Would your honored self please allow this humble creature to escort you upstairs where we will find a suitable carriage to take your royal arse to the police station?"

Ferguson smirked at her, and in that moment, I couldn't tell if he was joking or if he really was that insane. "That's much better," he cooed to Kisaragi, and with his head held high, he strutted past us and towards the stairs, the policewoman right behind him with one hand on her chakram. Her two subordinates followed with the second burglar in tow, and Leonhart and I brought up the rear. We made quite the ridiculous procession, I thought, but in the end, all that mattered was that we had caught our man and prevented an extremely intricate and rather costly crime.

By the time we left the Yard and Leonhart and I returned to our rooms, it was well past three in the morning. As I collapsed, exhausted, into my bed, however, I couldn't help but feel happier and more optimistic than I had in many months. We had done something extraordinary that night, something good. In addition, I had a new employer, a new purpose, and, it seemed, a new friend. The expression in Leonhart's eyes when he called me his 'partner' still remained with me, and the feelings of pride and expectation it created within my chest could not be suppressed. I had the feeling, as I dropped off to much-needed sleep that night, that by encouraging Leonhart to fight I had laid the groundwork for something truly amazing. I knew also, deep in my heart, that by offering my services and my friendship to this incredible man, I had started an adventure that, though it might prove to be difficult and dangerous, I would never regret beginning.

End of "The Red-Headed League"

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A/N: I'm not sure whose idea it was originally to use the last names of the voice actors for characters who don't have one, but I first came upon this brilliant idea in the writings of LoquitorLatinae. The credit may not belong to him/her, but it certainly doesn't belong to me.

So, here's the deal with this story: I plan to make it fairly long, using the original Sherlock cases as a backdrop for Leon's quest to take down the Organization and, because it's me, for the gradual development of Leon and Cloud's mutual attraction. If you're a BSI, know that the cases will be out of order, but I will be taking as few liberties as possible with them. I also will _not_ be creating my own mysteries. I'm no good at that, and I know it. As for updates, well, this is now my official "I need a break" fic. The nice thing about it is that each case has a definite end, so each chapter will have its own sense of resolution. Makes it good for long pauses.

And that's that. Hope you liked it. (I think I'll stay off the Meme for a while. Too many distractions.)


	3. Case 2: The Naval Treaty

**The Casebook of S. Leonhart**

**Description: **For the StrifeHart Kink Meme. The adventures of Mr. S. Leonhart as told by his companion Mr. C. Strife. Sherlock Holmes AU.

**Disclaimer: **Square-Enix owns the characters. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the plots and the character guidelines. Someone on the meme owns the original idea. And me? I simply own the words, nothing else.

* * *

**Case #2: The Naval Treaty**

The affair of the Red-Headed League left me feeling accomplished and optimistic towards the future, and I arose the next morning ready for adventure and probable danger. Based on the little information Leonhart had given me, I assumed that he, through previous research, knew the identities if not necessarily the locations of the men who would be our prey. I expected that we would begin our quest immediately and set out at once to bring down the Organization and rid the world of its criminal influence. I suppose I should have known better.

In reality, when the day after our first adventure dawned, I discovered to my surprise and chagrin that my neighbor had reverted to his old attitude and habits, acting as if the entire thing had not happened. Several times that day, I confronted him about the resolution I thought we had made, but all I received for my trouble was a blank stare. Any previous frustration I may have felt for the man was nothing compared to the rage into which his continued disregard sent me. I stomped about the house all day, scaring poor Miss Gainsborough half to death, and more than once, only my military training and the self-control it gave me kept me from giving in to the desire to retrieve my sword and use it to separate Leonhart's head from his neck. I simply could not believe that the man had so quickly forgotten the triumph of our arrest or the thrill of that moment when we had agreed to join forces.

Days passed in much the same manner, yet when Friday arrived, Leonhart proved to me that he had not, in fact, forgotten our deal. I opened my door that morning, intending to descend for breakfast, and found a small leather pouch on the hallway floor. It had no note attached, yet I knew it was for me and from whom it had come. The amount of munny inside could have paid for two weeks of intensive Heartless removal in the worst part of Hollow Bastion, expenses included. For a single night of work where all I did was point my sword at a would-be robber's neck, it was ludicrous, insulting even. If not for the fact that I had all but depleted my funds, I would have returned it and more than likely added a few choice words of disdain. Unfortunately, necessity dictated that I keep it, and so I did. I vowed, however, that I would earn my right to it at the soonest available opportunity, even if that meant I would have to force that opportunity by inflicting violence upon my employer.

Thankfully for my temper and Leonhart's physical well-being, it did not come to that. Later that very same week, I found my services, both as a doctor and as a bodyguard, once again required. It began on a night that was unseasonably warm but otherwise unremarkable. I had decided to spend the evening reviewing some of my medical texts and was therefore in my own rooms. Leonhart had gone out, on what errand I did not know, which left the house pleasantly quiet, free of piano music and random gunshots. Considering Miss Gainsborough and I had already dined, I had expected to remain undisturbed for the duration of the evening and was therefore surprised when I was pulled from my book by a knock at the door. I rose to open it and found Leonhart on the other side, looking as blank and as detached from the world as ever.

"Strife," he said without any other greeting, "come with me." He turned away.

The curt command, as well as the lack of information given, irritated me. "Wait," I ordered, but when he turned back with a single eyebrow raised in question, I remembered with whom I was speaking. While I could try to find out the reason for his appearance and for his summons, doing so would be extremely difficult and, considering there was a large chance he would tell me in his own time, decidedly not worth the effort. "Never mind. Lead on."

He led me only a few feet, across the hall to his own rooms. While I was certainly surprised to be invited into his inner sanctum, I made sure not to show it and merely stepped across the threshold after him.

At this point, I must endeavor to describe to you, my readers, the controlled chaos that is the rooms of Mr. Leonhart. He is not a messy or disorganized man. No, his rooms are quite neat and kept very clean, and everything is strictly organized in an almost military manner. However, I would wager to say that his methods of organization can be understood by no mortal man other than Leonhart himself. He possesses, as I do, a sitting room with a settee, armchairs, bookcases, a main table as well as end tables, and a fireplace. The bedroom is connected by a very short hallway and has a bed, dressers, a mirror, and a modest bathroom attached. Yet, no piece of furniture within Leonhart's rooms, with perhaps the exception of the bookcases and the bed, is used for the purpose for which it was built.

His books are what catches one's attention first. It seems at first glance that he owns nothing else. They are piled upon every flat surface in both rooms, seemingly at random, yet they are, in fact, organized not only by author but by subject, based on the location of the pile, and by year of publication, based on how high they sit off of the ground. He keeps one chair clear; all the others are covered in newspapers, again organized by which chair they sit upon and where in the pile they are placed. His dressers hold, not clothes which are in fact located in boxes within the closet, but tools and scientific devices of all kinds. One dresser is devoted to the maintenance and care of his gun/sword hybrid, while the others contain instruments worthy of the finest labs of the country. Even the fireplace has not been spared, for that is where he keeps his ammunition, neatly stacked in labeled boxes. Only his fine upright piano, which sits against the wall near his bed, gives the appearance of sanity and peace.

Most of these details I would acquire in the months to come when I spent many afternoons and evenings with Leonhart in his rooms. This particular evening, however, I barely had time to process the sheer number of books and papers before the man who had brought me here pushed me into the only available chair without a word. I swallowed my complaints at being so manhandled and instead watched as Leonhart slowly and carefully removed the stacks of papers from another chair and placed them gently upon the floor. Once he had cleared himself a space, he sat down as well and immediately fixed his eyes upon some distant location within his own mind. I examined his expression, looking for answers, but found nothing. My only clue was what looked to be a popsicle or ice cream stick that he held in his hand and with which he had begun to tap out a quick impatient-sounding rhythm against the armrest.

"So what are we doing?" I finally asked after a silent minute.

"Waiting," he replied.

While the answer was annoying, I had expected something along those lines, so I held my tongue. Instead, I made myself comfortable and examined my surroundings. Once I had done that to my satisfaction, I closed my eyes and, to pass the time, set about mentally reviewing the topics I had read earlier that evening, all to the accompaniment of that incessant tapping. I'm not sure how long we sat together like that, but it certainly was a substantial amount of time. I think perhaps I even dozed a bit. Then, all at once, the tapping stopped, and I opened my eyes, instantly alert and aware.

In spite of the warm weather and the late hour, Leonhart had left his windows open. Now, standing before one of them as if he had been there all along, was a man. He was above average in height, solid of build, and held himself with grace and authority, his arms folded behind his back. This, however, was all I could tell of him. A large, dark cloak hid the rest of his clothing from view, and his entire face except for the eyes and mouth were wrapped in white bandages. I could not make out a single distinguishing feature by which to describe him.

"Good evening, boy," he said, and his voice was deep and oddly accented.

Leonhart's eyes watched the intruder warily, but he did not seem the slightest bit surprised to see him. "DiZ," he replied curtly. When the man's eyes slid in my direction, he added, "This is Strife, my associate."

"Indeed?" DiZ chuckled lightly. "How very unlike you to allow another into your confidence. Although," he added, shifting his attention once more to Leonhart, "it does shed some light on another unexpected action of yours that has recently occurred."

A little smirk settled over my neighbor's lips, and at that sign of familiarity, I finally allowed myself to relax. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he stated with obvious smugness.

"Of course you don't," DiZ countered with a hint of amusement. "Just as I'm sure you have no idea of why I have come to see you."

"I have told you before that I will have no part in your quest for revenge."

"And while that is certainly a logical deduction to make, it is not, in fact, correct."

Scowling heavily, Leonhart leaned forward in his chair, eyes flashing. "Then why are you here, DiZ?" he demanded. "Surely this isn't just a social call."

The hidden man's lips quirked upwards briefly at the accusation, but they soon leveled out once more. "I am here for two reasons," he answered calmly. "The first is to give you these." He reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a small stack of thin folders. "Although you have refused them in the past, I assumed, what with your recent actions, that you may have changed your mind."

Leonhart snorted violently but said nothing. Taking this as a confirmation, DiZ gently placed the folders on a stack of books that rested on a nearby table.

"And the other reason?" my neighbor asked as the other man refolded his arms behind his back.

DiZ's voice was casual as he asked in return, "Do you, perhaps, remember a boy by the name of William Turner?"

Leonhart paused before replying, "The name is vaguely familiar to me."

"He lived at Edea's for a few years, but he is younger than you so it does not surprise me that you do not remember him well."

Throughout the entire conversation - or perhaps I should say, confrontation - I had sat quietly in my chair, silent, observing, and forgotten. As this piece of information was revealed, however, I startled violently and sat up so suddenly that Leonhart threw me a brief glare of disapproval. Edea's Orphanage had made headlines in Hollow Bastion nearly fifteen years ago. It had been an ordinary orphanage up until the point where the woman in charge had mysteriously disappeared. All of the children had been transferred to the government-run military school called Garden. If Leonhart had been an orphan at Edea's, he would have received his education there. This unexpected glimpse into my neighbor's childhood both surprised me and left me curious to discover even more.

"Young Turner is currently living in Port Royal," DiZ was continuing, oblivious to my sudden desires. "I suggest you visit him."

"And why would I wish to do that?"

"He has recently had something stolen from him. Something rather important." The hidden man's eyes fixed pointedly on Leonhart, and his gaze was so heated that I could feel its power myself. "I believe it is a case that will interest you, boy."

Leonhart's stormy eyes narrowed as he met DiZ's heavy stare and returned it without flinching. "Since when," he asked with venom lacing his tone, "do you care what may or what may not interest me? I distinctly remember being told that the profession I have chosen is nothing more than a hobby and a waste of my considerable talent."

"And so it is," our visitor declared with barely a pause. "Yet this matter is one of enough importance that I am willing to indulge you in your little dalliances if it yields the desired results." He turned and pushed aside the heavy curtains that blocked the window. Turning his head slightly to one side, he said, "Seek out the Governor of Port Royal. He will tell you how to locate Turner." And then, before I realized what was happening, he stepped forward, allowed the curtains to fall and hide his form, and within moments was gone.

To say I was shocked would be a poor attempt to describe what I was feeling at that time. I was not, as I have said, a particular fan of Leonhart's, but I did have a definite respect for him and for his unique and truly amazing abilities. The way DiZ had spoken to my neighbor and employer, especially near the end, incensed me. The condescending tone in which he spoke, the way he called him "boy" instead of by his name, it provoked an ire that surprised me as much as it stirred my blood. I found myself gripping the armrests of my chair with considerable force and attempting to burn a hole in the curtains with only my eyes. As soon as I realized it, I calmed myself down, but I couldn't help but wonder at my involuntary reaction to the mysterious man's attitude towards the man beside me.

As for Leonhart himself, he was using his armrest as a platform upon which to drum his fingers. His face had settled into a fierce scowl, and he appeared to have taken up my quest to set fire to the drapery. The moment he felt my eyes upon him, however, he moved and stalked over to the folders which DiZ had left him. He lifted up the topmost one and glanced at its contents briefly before closing it again and offering it to me. Immediately, I rose and crossed to him, curious to see what it was we had been given.

When I took the thin folder in my hands and opened it, I discovered it contained a single sheet of paper, printed upon which was a photograph of Ferguson and several lines of information regarding his habits and history. At the top of the page was the heading "No. 11 - Marluxia". Intrigued, I set the folder down and investigated some of the others. Each one had similar sheets of information, most without pictures, some without names, but all headed with a number.

"The Organization," Leonhart explained to me. "He has spent the past several years trying to track them down."

"There isn't much information for several years worth of work," I commented, perhaps a bit more sharply than I should have. I was still a bit angry from our recent encounter.

"Because it is near impossible to find anything on them," my companion returned at once. "We were lucky to have such a chance with Ferguson. I doubt we will have a similar opportunity again." He turned away.

I watched him walk across the room, conflicting emotions battling within my breast. While I was grateful for this assistance and for the possibility of another case, it rankled me that both had come from such an irritating person. "That man," I asked, "who is he exactly?"

Leonhart had selected a book from one of his many stacks and was flipping through it with brisk movements. "No one knows for certain," he answered me, "not even DiZ himself. … Ah!" The quiet exclamation accompanied the sudden stilling of pages and a glint of what appeared to be recognition in those stormy eyes.

"What have you found?"

"William Turner." I approached him, interested, but he closed the volume before I could see anything other than a yellowed newspaper clipping and a photo of several children. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, but I noticed the way his fingers gripped the scrapbook - or so I now believed it to be. "We called him Tadpole," Leonhart said with something that might have resembled a smile, "because they pulled him from the sea. To my knowledge, no one ever discovered why he had been floating there, clinging to driftwood for his life, but everyone assumed a shipwreck of some sort. His time in the water was not beneficial to his constitution, as you might imagine, and I remember him being a rather sickly child for many years. I believe, however, that he outgrew it."

During Leonhart's gentle reminiscing, I had returned to my original chair. "Your friend?" I asked him when he paused.

"No," he replied immediately though not unkindly. "I was aware of him as a young man is aware of his younger siblings' friends. I knew his name and his face, but we did not speak." He fell silent, and for a long moment, neither of us said a word. Then, his eyes snapped open and he began to move. "Get some rest, Strife," he ordered as he refiled the book. "We leave first thing in the morning."

"So you will take the case then?"

Leonhart had paused at my question, and now he answered me, "Not necessarily. We will go to Port Royal, but I reserve my final decision until after I hear what Turner has to say."

He said no more, and so I left him and retired to my room for the night.

The next morning, after throwing together travel bags and bidding farewell to Miss Gainsborough, Leonhart and I made our way to the Gummi Station and booked passage to Port Royal. By now, my readers should not be surprised to learn that we spent the entire trip in silence. I know not what occupied my companion's thoughts during this time, but as for me, I could not help but revisit our conversation with the mysterious DiZ and wonder what awaited us at our destination. The prospect of meeting a man from Leonhart's past intrigued me although even I was uncertain as to why. This man, my employer, was so cold and closed-off that I did not even know his first name, yet instead of dismissing him as unworthy of my regard, I had followed him, helped him, ordered him to hire me, and now found myself eager to know what lay behind that façade of ice and stone. Perhaps it was the man's talent or simply his presence, but something about him had caught my attention and refused to release its hold.

We had left early in the morning on the first available ship; by the time we arrived, it was already late afternoon. Port Royal is, as its name suggests, a harbor town. Most of the country's commerce passes through its gates in either one direction or the other. Some of the world's richest merchants live there, but it is also the home to some of the poorest communities, many of whose denizens engage in less than legal activities. It is said that anything a man could desire can be bought in Port Royal, as long as he is willing to pay the price.

Our destination, at least to begin, was in the more affluent part of town. As DiZ instructed, we stopped first in the business district and inquired at the government offices as to where we could find William Turner. The head clerk, a man by the name of Norrington, directed us to a house on the outskirts of town.

"He hasn't been well, though," the man informed us. "His doctor may not allow you to see him."

"Dear me! What is the matter?" Leonhart asked, putting on a concerned expression that I, who knew him, could tell immediately was faked.

"Well, sir, I'm not entirely sure." Norrington's brow furrowed as he frowned lightly. "I heard it was fever and nothing too serious, but he's been ill now for nearly three months. I've never heard of anyone having a fever that long."

"Ah, but poor Will has always had a weak constitution, and he is prone to exhaustion as well."

"Is he, sir?" the clerk asked, his expression clearing, "Well, I suppose a friend of his would know better than I. And he does work hard. Governor Swann is always having him prepare documents that have him working far into the night. It stands to reason that it would all catch up to him at some point."

Leonhart agreed and thanked Norrington again for the information with a handshake and a warm smile. We then took our leave and were soon on the street, looking for transportation to take us to Turner's house. To my surprise, I soon realized that my companion had not stopped smiling. Indeed, as we procured a cab and settled back in our seats for the short journey, it only seemed to grow. Eventually, I remembered that I had seen that smile once before, coming at me over the back of the front parlor couch. This was the smile of Leonhart on the scent of a new case, the smile of anticipation and desire.

"What if we're unable to see him?" I asked.

"We'll be able to see him," Leonhart answered confidently. "The theft occurred three months ago, yet DiZ only contacted me yesterday. He waited until Turner was well enough to receive us."

"So we can chase a trail gone cold?"

"There will be something for us to follow, else DiZ would not have come at all."

I shrugged and leaned back in my seat, not convinced but no longer willing to argue the point. Leonhart simply continued to smile.

Turner's house turned out to be a guest home on a much larger estate. It was a modest building with its own private entryway and a well-kept garden in the rear. The sun had begun to set when we arrived, prompting me to wonder aloud if we should have waited until the next day to visit. Leonhart seemed completely unconcerned with the lateness of the hour and approached the front door as if he were an expected guest. He knocked soundly upon the wood, three short, sharp raps, and then waited.

A minute or so later, a woman opened the door. She was young and quite beautiful with sparkling eyes and long hair in waves. As pleasing as she was, however, she was clearly not pleased to see us. She frowned as she scanned our faces, and her voice was hard as she asked, "Can I help you?"

"We are here to see William Turner," Leonhart informed her.

The woman's frown only deepened at this. "On what business?"

"On the business of returning what was taken from him." When it appeared that she was about to question him further, Leonhart added, "Just tell Tadpole that the Commander is here to see him."

The command finally wiped the suspicion from the woman's face enough that she allowed us inside. After telling us to wait in the hall, she disappeared briefly, only to reappear with a friendlier smile and an invitation to follow her. She led us to what had originally probably been a sitting room based on the large windows that opened into the garden. Now, however, it had all the hallmarks of a sick room, including the small table covered in bottles and glasses, the chair drawn up near the long sofa, and the pale figure covered in a blanket that rested there.

"Leonhart!" the figure cried as we entered. "It is you. I could scarce believe it when Elizabeth told me." He struggled to sit up and then made a move as if to stand, prompting the woman beside us to dash across to him in alarm.

"Will!" she cried. "You mustn't!"

Turner made as if to protest, but his words were drowned in a pained gasp as his legs buckled from underneath him and only the woman's arms kept him from falling to the floor.

"Strife," Leonhart said to me. Understanding at once, I crossed to the couple, helped return Turner to the sofa, and immediately began to check his pulse, breathing, and temperature. Finding them all elevated, I turned to the array of medicines on the table, selected one, and poured out the proper dosage.

The woman, Elizabeth, was watching me with suspicion in her eyes once more. "Are you a doctor?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied at the same time Leonhart said, "Strife is my personal physician, and an excellent one at that." The comment made me want to grimace at the exaggerated praise, yet I could not help but feel pleased by it as well.

"Another doctor," Turner laughed sadly, closing his eyes and resting his head back against a pillow. "I've had so many."

"Stop complaining," his companion ordered. "You must focus on getting better. Now …" With an almost regal air about her, she rose to her feet and turned to the two of us. "Perhaps we should start over with proper introductions. I am Elizabeth Swann. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Swann?" I echoed, looking up briefly from my new patient. "As in the Governor?"

"Yes," she answered, meeting my eyes. "I am his daughter."

"She is also," Turner added, "my fiancée and the only thing that has been keeping me alive and sane these last few terrible months." He lifted a shaking hand towards her which she took immediately into her own. "Elizabeth, let me introduce Mr. Squall Leonhart, a gentleman who attended the same school I did. And …" His fever-hazed eyes turned to me, at a loss.

My mind was awhirl at the discovery of my employer's given name - Squall. How inappropriate and yet, at the same time, how perfect. - but I managed to quickly return myself to the present. "Cloud Strife," I introduced myself. "Pleased to meet you." Then, rather than shake Turner's hand, I placed the medicine cup to his lips and forced him to drink.

Now that the introductions were over, Miss Swann's gaze was firmly on my companion's once again. "You said at the door, Mr. Leonhart, that you were here to help Will recover what was taken from him. You are a detective then? Did my father hire you?"

Leonhart was still standing in the entranceway to the room, leisurely leaning against one of the doorframes with his arms crossed over his chest. "I am a detective," he answered, "but I have not been hired by anyone. I am here because I received information that Turner needed assistance with a matter that might be of interest to me. That is all."

Turner moved to sit up again but quickly stilled when both Miss Swann and I placed hands upon him to keep him down. "A matter that might interest you?" he echoed, doubt creeping into his tone. "What does that mean exactly?"

"Merely that I thrive on challenges and problems that others find too difficult to unravel." Something soft flickered across Leonhart's expression then, and his voice lowered as he said, "We may not have been close, but surely you remember that much about me, Tadpole."

Turner's breathing, which had become erratic at what he perceived as a possible threat, evened out again as he relaxed. "Yes, I do," he smiled. "Vividly I remember Matron trying and failing to keep you entertained." He laughed lightly and waved his free hand towards an empty chair. "Sit, please, and let me tell you about my troubles. How much do you know?"

"I was told nothing," the answer came as Leonhart finally lowered himself into a seat. "However, since arriving here in Port Royal, I have deduced that three months ago you were given custody of an extremely important document by the Governor which was then stolen from you. Is that correct?"

I startled slightly at this statement. Leonhart had told me that he assumed the theft occurred three months ago based on what Norrington had told us, but he had said nothing so far about being given a document from the Governor. Turner, however, merely nodded his head.

"That is correct. After graduating from Garden, I came to Port Royal to work as a clerk for Governor Swann. In time, I earned the Governor's respect and trust, enough that he began to assign special tasks to me, tasks that required a higher level of security than normal. I always performed these duties at night, after the rest of the day staff had gone home, and until three months ago, I had never once given the Governor a reason to regret his trust in me." An expression of pain passed briefly over his face. In response, Miss Swann poured him a glass of water which he took with a grateful smile and proceeded to sip from as he continued his long explanation.

"Three months ago, the Governor called me into his office and bade me make copies of an exceedingly important and secret document. I cannot tell you what the document said without further breaking my word to the Governor, but I can tell you that it was a treaty between our country and another that dictated terms and agreements over a naval alliance. The Governor warned me that, should this document become public, it could be politically disastrous for Port Royal, for the country as a whole, and for him personally. I was to take the utmost caution when copying it and not allow a soul to know what I was doing. He wanted the copies finished by the following morning. I promised him it would be done.

"After the rest of the staff went home, I stayed behind to copy the document. It was exceedingly long and complicated, and after three hours, I had only made it about half of the way through. I decided that a cup of coffee would help me concentrate and ward off any fatigue, so I rang for the commissionaire, a man by the name of Pintel. To my surprise, my summons was answered by a man I had never seen before. When I questioned him, he said his name was Ragetti and that he was Pintel's cousin. He also claimed that he frequently worked after hours at the offices as one of the cleaning staff. I asked him for my cup of coffee, and he said he would tell Pintel right away."

"Was the treaty on your desk when this Ragetti arrived?" Leonhart interrupted.

"It was," Turner replied, "but my desk is several paces from the door and Ragetti stayed in the hallway. It should have looked exactly the same as any other document any of the clerks are given on a regular basis. There was nothing that stood out or otherwise would have told Ragetti that it was special."

"Other than the fact that you were there working on it late at night," I commented.

"Other than that, yes," my patient answered with a wry smile. Upon receiving a gesture from Leonhart to continue, he said, "I waited for my coffee for nearly forty minutes. At first, I assumed Pintel was simply busy with other duties, but eventually I became impatient and decided to go down to see to the drink myself. And now, Leonhart, I must tell you the worst of my mistakes, that which has haunted me ever since that fateful night. I left my office and went downstairs … and left the treaty on my desk in plain view."

Turner paused, cringing slightly as if expecting a reprimand or other harsh comment, but Leonhart merely continued to gaze at him with that unreadable expression of his. Miss Swann, who had moved to stand behind the couch, leaned down and quietly encouraged her fiancé to continue. "I found Pintel asleep at his post, my coffee gone cold beside him. Annoyed, I woke him and proceeded to listen to his deluge of apologies. Just as he was getting up to make me another, however, one of the bells above his head, which the clerks use to summon him, began to ring. Pintel spent a moment gaping back and forth between me and the bell, which was still ringing as if the person on the other end was swinging from the rope like a child, before I finally lost my patience and demanded to know what was wrong. Imagine my surprise and horror when he told me that the bell ringing was the one for _my_ office! Immediately, I dashed back up the stairs, passing no one on the way down, but by the time I got back to my desk, the treaty was gone."

"There's a set of back stairs in the building," Miss Swann informed us, taking over for her fiancé who was clearly suffering from speaking so much and from reliving the experience. "The police inspector who has headed the investigation so far concluded that the thief left the building that way. There were no footprints, however, or any other clues that he could find. He had both Pintel and Ragetti tailed for two months as well as Mr. Norrington for a few weeks, but so far he has found nothing."

"Mr. Norrington?" I asked as I placed a cool cloth on Turner's forehead. "Why was he under suspicion?"

"The inspector thought he might be jealous of Will's relationship with my father and try to break his trust in him," she answered. "Also, James once made a bid for my hand, but I turned him down in favor of Will."

"I see."

"So, Commander," Turner said, turning to Leonhart with a sad smile, "what do you think? Can you offer me any hope whatsoever, or shall I simply succumb to this fever and spare my loved ones my shame and disgrace?"

"Will, you mustn't talk like that! You simply _mustn't_!"

"You won't die from this," I informed him, "at least not anymore. In fact, with sufficient rest and fluids, you should be back on your feet in only a few more days." I turned once more to the cluster of bottles that sat on the nearby table. In my initial quest for a suitable medicine, I had seen several labels that, though I did not have the time to investigate them further then, provoked my professional curiosity. "What _is_ all this stuff?" I griped after only a few moments of reading.

"You disapprove, Strife?"

Grimacing at Leonhart's question, I answered, "Yes, very much so. An ordinary fever doesn't need half of these medications. While I'm sure the recent stress and his tendency toward illness in childhood made this fever more virulent than normal, it still doesn't merit these particular remedies." One label caught my eye, and I lifted it up to verify that I had indeed seen it correctly. "What in the world?" Turning to my patient, I demanded, "Have you been suffering from hallucinations?"

"A little, yes," Turner admitted. "Initially I wasn't, but after about a month, I started to have mild ones so one of my doctors prescribed something to counteract them."

"Yes," I very nearly snarled, "and the reason you were having them is because someone, one of your other doctors no doubt, starting giving you this. No _wonder_ you've been sick for three months." Grumbling mightily, I began pulling bottles off of the table and laying aside the unnecessary ones. So caught up in my task was I that I nearly missed Leonhart's amused chuckle from behind me.

"Well," he commented, "while Strife works on getting you some proper treatment, do you mind if I ask the two of you a few questions?"

"Of course not," Turner answered, attempting to sit up again and again being pushed back down by Miss Swann and myself.

"First of all, who other than yourself and the Governor know that he periodically gives you high-security documents to copy?"

"No one," the young man answered immediately. "Most if not all of my co-workers know that I periodically stay late, but I believe they assume I do so to impress my future father-in-law."

"It is common knowledge then? Your engagement to Miss Swann."

"Yes."

"And you, Miss Swann, were not aware of what kept your fiancé away from you so late at night?"

"Not the details, no," she answered confidently. "I knew that Will worked late at my father's request, but I did not know what it was he worked on. I try to stay away from all things political as I find it quite tiresome."

Leonhart gave her a small smile as he replied, "Quite wise of you, my lady." Turning his attention back to Turner, he asked, "Apart from your fellow clerks and other office employees, did anyone make a habit of visiting you in your office? Miss Swann perhaps? Any other friends?"

"Elizabeth did frequently visit me when she was in town, yes," Turner answered. "As for others, I do not have many friends outside of the office. The only one I can think of who did occasionally visit is Jack." He paused, but at a look from Leonhart to elaborate, continued, "Jack Sparrow is a sailor and a decent, if eccentric, fellow. He and I met quite by accident some years ago and have become fairly good friends. When his ship is in port, he will often come to see me and Elizabeth."

"Was his ship in port the night the treaty was stolen?"

"I … I am not certain …"

"It was," Miss Swann interjected. "Remember, Will? We had to evict him from this room so that you could recover here instead of upstairs."

"Oh, yes. I remember now," the young man said with a smile to his fiancée. Turning to Leonhart, he explained further, "Whenever Jack is in town, I invite him to stay here with me, but rather than use the guestroom upstairs, he prefers to sleep in this room. He says he cannot sleep unless he can see the stars clearly and the windows in this room allow him to do that."

"When you fell ill, however, he was forced to move elsewhere."

"Yes."

"And how soon after the treaty was stolen did you become ill?"

"That very same night," Turner answered with a tired sigh. "I spent the majority of the evening running around with the inspector, all of it in the rain. By the time I returned home, I was mentally and physically exhausted and fell ill almost immediately."

"The local authorities who have been investigating this case so far, they searched the homes of the commissionaire and his cousin?"

"They did, but they found nothing."

"And what of Norrington?"

"His home was not searched, but he was followed for a time as Elizabeth mentioned."

"I see." Leonhart paused, his fingers steepled before his face which bore a rather serious expression. His silence lasted a good minute before he finally broke it. "You mentioned that public awareness of this treaty would have disastrous political consequences," he said. "Have any of these things occurred?"

Turner shook his head. "No, and while I'm extremely grateful for the silence, I cannot understand why. The thief has had plenty of time to sell the treaty to the papers or present it to a foreign embassy. I can think of no reason why he hasn't other than that he is waiting for a better price."

"That is one explanation, certainly," my employer replied, although his tone of voice indicated that he strongly doubted it was correct. He continued to sit for several minutes, silent and motionless, until suddenly he leapt to his feet, startling us all. "Strife," he barked, "are you finished?"

"I am."

"Good. Please instruct Miss Swann on what medications Turner should receive. I will be outside trying to flag down a cab."

He had turned and made it partly into the hall when Miss Swann's voice called him back. "Wait a moment, please, Mr. Leonhart!" She ran up to him and lifted her head so she could gaze strongly into his eyes. "For three months, I have held out hope that someone somehow can find this treaty and return it to my father. That Will's health and honor can both be restored. And for three months, I have been told by the police that at this point it would be nearly impossible. That I am, essentially, a silly girl. Well, Mr. Leonhart, tell me bluntly and honestly: Am I a silly girl?"

Leonhart's face softened considerably, and something almost like tenderness slipped into his eyes. "My dear Miss Swann," he replied, "anyone who would call you that must be entirely bereft of both intelligence and imagination, and I might add, a terrible judge of character."

The woman's eyes brightened at this considerably. "So you think you can find it for us?" she clarified. "Truthfully? There is still hope?"

"There is always hope when I'm around," came the immediate, smirking reply, and Leonhart flashed me a sly grin before disappearing into the hall completely.

Beside me, Turner began to chuckle softly. I gave him an inquiring look to which he responded, "All these years, and he hasn't changed." A smile settled onto his face as he closed his eyes and leaned back into the pillows. "He hasn't changed in the slightest."

After explaining to Miss Swann which medications she should give to her fiancé and when, I gathered my few things and joined Leonhart outside. He had somehow managed to find a cab in spite of the house being off the main road, and Miss Swann insisted on coming with us so that she could inform the local innkeeper that we were to stay for free. I tried to argue with her that such preferential treatment wasn't necessary but she insisted with a regalness more suited to a queen than the Governor's daughter. Leonhart, I noticed, made no effort whatsoever to dissuade her, but I had known him long enough by then to expect it.

The next day we hunted Heartless. I attempted to get Leonhart to share his thoughts with me, to perhaps even work through his reasoning aloud so I could follow along, but he refused. When I asked, he simply smirked and used my own words against me, reminding me that it was my job to stay focused on the fighting, not the case. He was right, of course, yet it still irked me. I had heard the same story he had with the same lack of clues or other useful information, yet while I would have declared the case unsolvable, I could see by the muted twinkles in his eyes that he had made connections that I had not. Knowing that those connections existed yet not being able to grasp them frustrated me deeply. Thankfully there were plenty of shadowy monsters upon which I could vent my annoyance.

The first time I acted as bodyguard while Leonhart worked through his case, we fought for several hours. This time, only a single hour had passed before I found a hand on my collar, pulling me away from the Heartless I had engaged.

"Come, Strife," the maniac for whom I worked stated in response to my yelp of surprise and alarm. "We have work to do and no time to waste."

"Do you think you can inform me of that _without_ putting my life in danger?" I demanded, but my complaint went ignored. Leonhart simply dragged me along until I consented to walk on my own. As before, his pace was punishingly brisk, his face determined.

"You've solved it, haven't you?" I asked him as we sped through the streets. "What happened? Who took the treaty and where is it now?"

"No time to tell you," he muttered in response, and in the next moment, he flagged down a passing cab and had pulled open the door to get in before the vehicle had stopped fully. As I scrambled to get in behind him before it took off again, he gave the driver Turner's address and added, "Hurry! Get me there in under five minutes, and I'll double the fare."

"What the hell, Leonhart?" I complained as the cab immediately lurched forward and proceeded to reach unsafe speeds. "Why the rush all of a sudden?"

Leonhart finally turned his stormy eyes to me, and within them I could see the electrical spark that made the comparison so very appropriate. "By all means we could slow down," he replied with that damned smirk of his, "but I assumed that you would wish to be present for the conclusion of the case."

"Damn straight I want to be present!" I growled at him.

It was hard to discern, but his expression softened ever so slightly. Gently, he finished, "Then we must hurry."

When we reached Turner's house, I leapt out and went to check on my patient while Leonhart paid the cab driver and asked the man to wait which, as he had just been given twice his normal fare, he was more than willing to do. Turner had much improved over the night, and I quickly cleared him for travel. Leonhart had not told me why Turner must leave the house, only that he must. Thankfully, my employer had made such a positive impression on my patient and his fiancée that Miss Swann immediately set about packing a case for Turner the moment I relayed the order. The plan was for me to take Turner back to our apartments in Traverse Town, leave him in the care of Miss Gainsborough who fortuitously had a fair amount of nursing experience, and then return. If we hurried and if the Gummis remained on schedule, I would be back in Port Royal shortly after ten in the evening. Leonhart would stay here with Miss Swann and wait for my return.

"And then," I hissed to him as we waited for Miss Swann to descend with Turner's case, "you _will_ tell me just what the hell is going on."

"Of course," Leonhart murmured with a soft smile. His eyes were on the stairway leading to the second floor, but his gaze was far more distant. "I would tell you now if you did not have a ship to catch."

I growled a little, signifying my doubt in the validity of this statement. More to myself than to him, I grumbled, "I don't know why I let you order me around like this, without even questioning why I'm doing what I'm doing."

To my surprise, Leonhart replied, "I do not know either although I am grateful for your belief in me." His eyes turned to mine, and I clearly saw there the emotion he had professed, mixed with something that I could have called shyness. "It has been some time since I had someone in whom I could trust," he confided to me quietly. "Some time since I had anyone I could call 'partner'."

The blood rose in my cheeks a bit at his words, but I ignored the slight burn of it and replied casually, "Then I suppose I must do my best to exceed your expectations, even if you do tell me nothing until the last possible moment."

Leonhart merely chuckled softly at me in response and turned away.

Miss Swann returned soon thereafter, and within the hour, Turner and I were on our way to Traverse Town. Our trip was pleasant, though quiet as I had sedated my companion to make the travel easier for him. During the short times he was awake, I endeavored to find out more information on Leonhart and his childhood, but Turner was able to tell me little that I had not already deduced. The only interesting facts I learned were that he had an older sister and, at the time of his graduation from Garden, had been romantically involved with the daughter of a politician. Turner had assumed that they would marry, but I was able to inform him that no woman was in Leonhart's life now. Whether they had broken up or the girl had died, neither of us knew.

Once we arrived in Traverse Town, I escorted Turner to our lodgings, explained the situation to Miss Gainsborough who welcomed Turner warmly, and then, after a quick stop in my room for additional supplies, immediately returned to the Gummi Station. I attempted to sleep during the return trip, but my excitement kept me awake for most of the ride. Port Royal was dark when I arrived, and cold with a stiff wind blowing across the water and directly into a man's bones. I took a cab towards Turner's house, but, as per Leonhart's instructions, I disembarked still some distance from the building and traveled the rest of the way on foot, keeping to the shadows and away from light. Rather than approach the front door, I skirted around the house to the back.

A dark, silent figure waited for me there, so still that upon first glance he appeared to be nothing but a statue. He did not even move his gaze to meet me as I approached, keeping it instead on the darkened windows of the house. Wordlessly, I crouched down beside him behind the cover of bushes that he had chosen and reached into my bag to withdraw my extra supplies. I wrapped one of the blankets around my own shoulders and then, as it appeared that Leonhart would not move for anything, draped the other about his body. Only then did he stir.

"Thank you," he murmured lowly.

"That's why you hired me," I replied as loudly as I dared. "To keep you from killing yourself, whether it be from injury or illness. Now, you owe me an explanation. Who took the treaty? Where is it now? And let's add to that the reason why I just spent the day riding back and forth on Gummis, and why we're freezing to death staking out Turner's empty house."

One of Leonhart's hands lifted to clutch the blanket more tightly to his frame. "Before I answer all that," he said, "I am interested in hearing what you yourself think of the matter."

I snorted violently at him and challenged, "Why? So you can be amused at my incorrect conclusions?"

Briefly his eyes flickered to mine, and I saw the hint of a smile pull at his lips as he took in my frustrated expression. "Of course not," he reassured me. "However, if I know what you have already pieced together, I can build from there."

Sighing, I settled myself more comfortably against the ground. Part of me wanted to just seize Leonhart by the throat and shake him until the answers came pouring out, but the majority of me was simply too tired to care anymore. As much as I hated it, this was what he did. I could fight it and prolong my own suffering, or I could simply give in. "Fine," I replied. "Have it your way." I paused a moment to gather my patience and my thoughts, then began, "It seems to me that whoever did this has been planning it for some time and also had inside help. I suppose it's possible that the thief could obtain information on Turner and the treaty simply from 'innocently' asking about at the office, especially if he found an employee who was friendly and fairly stupid, but it would be more difficult to determine exactly when the treaty would pass from Swann's hands to Turner's without either having an accomplice on the inside or simply being in the office to begin with. The main thing that has been bothering me, though," I admitted after another, shorter pause, "is the matter of the bell."

"Ah, the bell," Leonhart interrupted me suddenly. When I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, he was smiling again. "What about the bell?" he asked, still keeping his voice low.

"It doesn't make sense, does it?" I asked back in equal tones. "Why spend time planning to steal an important document from the government office, obtaining information on who will have it and when, and waiting until the exact moment when Turner has left his office, only to announce your presence by ringing the bell? An act of bravado? Hardly. The only thing I can come up with, and I had a lot of time to think about it thanks to you, is that Pintel was the inside help and the bell was a signal to tell him that the job was done."

Leonhart nodded slightly, but I could tell from the way his smile did not change that he wasn't convinced. "Possible, but then why did Pintel tell Turner that the bell was his? If Pintel was the accomplice, it would have been smarter to say the bell was from another office. Turner would not have immediately run up to investigate otherwise."

"For Ragetti then?" I offered. "Pintel wasn't supposed to be at his post at that moment. It could have been a prearranged signal for Ragetti who could have been hiding nearby, listening."

"Better," Leonhart conceded, "but still not good enough. If the robbery was as perfectly planned as it appears, a signal would be unnecessary. If Pintel was the inside man and pretended to be asleep to lure Turner from his office, he would have lied about the bell. If Ragetti, or any other worker in the building for that matter, were the inside man, he needn't be signaled at all. He played no part in luring Turner out. He could simply go about his job as usual."

"Then what's the correct answer?" I asked him, my frustration returning in full force. "What is your explanation?"

Leonhart didn't answer immediately, his eyes staring fixedly at the dark house before us, and then, when he did speak, his tone was slightly detached, as if he were dreaming. "Consider this, Strife: You are a friend of William Turner's. You know him from his past, from his present, from work, socially, it doesn't matter. You know he frequently works late and decide, one evening, to go visit him. To surprise him, perhaps to take him out for a breath of air or something to eat. You go to his office, but while he is clearly still working tonight, he isn't there. So you ring the bell to the commissionaire's post, thinking perhaps he will know where Turner is, and you make sure to ring it several times so the man will hear and come quickly. The bell is located slightly behind Turner's desk, and when you turn around again, you can't help but let your gaze fall to what he was working on. It is a document, official and important looking. Now, imagine that this document is tempting. You need money or you are really only Turner's friend in name. This document could change your life. It could make you rich. It could destroy Turner's engagement to a woman you desire. It could bring down a politician you do not support and put one you do in his place. The motive is not important. What's important is that the document is there, right in front of you, and no one is there to protect it. So you take it, and you run."

Stunned, I gaped at him. "So you're saying," I whispered when I had found my voice again, "that this robbery wasn't premeditated at all? That it was completely spur of the moment?"

"Yes," he stated simply, "and it is the bell that tells us so. Now, the next question is who. Had the document already been sold … well … I would not be on this case at all, but the point is that the thief would have been much more difficult to find. Since it has not, however, that narrows it down substantially."

"How can you be so sure?" I pressed. "As Turner said, the thief could just be waiting for a better price."

"For three months?" Leonhart asked, arching a brow at me. "Highly unlikely. Those who want it would have been falling over themselves to get it. And this is Port Royal. Every black market in the world has at least five fingers here. No, it has not been sold because it is no longer in the thief's hands and he, through circumstances that he could not have foreseen, can no longer get his hands on it. And that, Strife, that narrows it down to two people. One is Miss Elizabeth Swann -"

"Leonhart!" I hissed beneath my breath. "Surely you can't suspect -"

"I can," he interrupted me, "and I did, but no longer. She has cleared herself through her character and her actions. So that just leaves one, and he …" He paused and lifted his head slightly. Even in the dark, I could see his eyes brighten as he whispered, "He is coming now."

Immediately, I turned my head in the direction of his gaze. It was difficult to see in the gloom, but a dark shape was, in fact, approaching the house from the direction of the road. As it came closer, I could see it was a man, thin and slightly ragged, wearing a hat atop his long, braided hair and a thin saber at his side. He tried the windows as he came, pulling against each one in turn, until he finally found one that had been left unlocked. In an instant, he had disappeared into the house, and in the next, Leonhart was on his feet.

"Come," he ordered. "Quickly."

Eagerly, I obeyed, hurrying across the lawn after him. We slipped through the window into the house just in time to see, by the light of a single candle, the intruder slitting open the bottom of a sofa which had been turned on its side. To my surprise, I suddenly realized that we were in Turner's sick room and the sofa being cut open was the same one upon which my patient had been lying these past three months. I had little time to consider the implications of this, however, since Leonhart immediately drew his sword, prompting me to draw my own, and at the two sounds, the man finally looked up and saw us.

"Mr. Jack Sparrow, I presume," my employer intoned.

The name finally opened the doors in my mind and allowed me to see what Leonhart had already pieced together. "I understand," I breathed in stunned realization. "_You_ stole the treaty from Turner's office, then hid it here, intending to sell it the next day. But Turner fell ill that night and you were evicted from the room."

"Exactly," Leonhart finished with a smile, "and the treaty has been here ever since."

"'Stole' is such an ugly word, mates," Sparrow commented with an affected simper that made me cringe. He seemed surprisingly unaffected by the fact that he had two extremely large swords pointed at him while he himself only had a small knife and a sheathed saber. "I was only keeping it safe for Turner, you know. It was sitting there, all unprotected like. Someone had to keep it safe." He gave us what was probably supposed to be a smile but looked, to me, more like a watery grimace. "I was planning on telling Turner I had it," he said. "Just as soon as he got better."

"You taking it is what made him ill in the first place," I retorted with a sudden flash of anger.

"Of course you were," Leonhart replied as if I had not spoken. "And I suppose at the same time you were also going to tell him that you are in fact Captain Jack Sparrow, formerly of the pirate ship _Black Pearl_."

Sparrow's eyes suddenly lit up like jewels, and he grinned at us with ugly, ill-kept teeth. "You've heard of me then?" he asked.

"In passing," Leonhart answered, his tone intentionally dismissive. "Your name was somewhat familiar to me, so I had Miss Swann use her father's connections to procure me appointments with a few local authorities. All together we were able to figure it out."

"Was this before or after you sent her to tell me that dear William had finally gotten well enough to leave this room?"

"Before. Otherwise she might not make it back here before I needed to leave, and one of us had to be in this room at all times until evening."

"Right." Still with that unconcerned air, Sparrow tucked his knife back into his belt and then looked up at Leonhart with a determined expression. "Well, then, mate, good for you and all that. You figured it out and you caught me. So what now? I suppose you're planning on taking me to the authorities? 'Cept I should warn you, I won't go quietly like."

I tightened my grip on my sword at the implied threat, but my employer merely shook his head. "Actually," he informed the pirate, "I was planning on letting you go. Miss Swann argued in your favor, at length I might add."

"Did she now?" Sparrow asked with another ugly grin. "Excellent girl she is. Spirited. Has a good heart."

"Indeed. However, while she may have argued for your release, you still inflicted great physical and emotional harm on her fiancée. She told me to tell you that if you show up in Port Royal again, she will have you arrested on sight. Personally, I suggest you take this warning to heart. The wrath of a woman in love is not to be taken lightly."

"That it isn't," Sparrow agreed with a nod. He waved vaguely at the two swords still pointed at him. "Is this your idea of letting me go, then?"

Leonhart's smile stretched into his familiar feral grin. "No," he answered, "this is my idea of making sure both the treaty and Turner's unfinished copy of it stay here when you leave."

A little of the light in Sparrow's eyes went out at this statement, and I saw him glance longingly at the cut-up sofa. To his credit, however, he shrugged nonchalantly and stepped away without a backwards glance. "Right then. Guess I'll be off."

"Just a moment," Leonhart stopped him. When the pirate had frozen again, he spoke my name and I, understanding at once, put away my sword and went to the sofa. I easily found the documents that had been hidden beneath the layer of fabric on the underside of the seat, and a quick search of the papers determined that both the treaty and the copy were there. At a nod from me, Leonhart lowered his sword and allowed Sparrow to pass. The man cheekily tipped his hat to the pair of us before crossing quickly to the window and slipping through it to disappear.

The following morning, we returned to Turner who was so ecstatic to be handed the treaty that I thought he might make himself ill again through sheer joy alone. He left for Port Royal at once to inform Miss Swann and her father, and by that evening, our little apartment was flooded with gifts. Miss Swann sent several bouquets, much to Miss Gainsborough's delight. The Governor sent over a rather hefty check and an invitation to dine with him whenever we were in town. As for Turner, he apparently had a fine memory for he sent a large box of imported chocolates from a confectioner I had never heard of but which, Leonhart embarrassedly admitted after much prodding, was a favorite of his at school. The gift that seemed to make the most impression on my employer, however, was a single unmarked box of blue ice cream bars which was not delivered but seemed to appear from nowhere.

"It's from DiZ, isn't it?" I asked when I had finally made the connection to the stick Leonhart had held at the very beginning of this adventure.

"Yes."

The word was short and softly spoken, but I could hear the pain in it. In that simple syllable, I learned that the relationship between my friend and the mysterious bandaged man was more complicated than dislike and begrudging respect. Whatever truth lay beneath the surface, however, would have to wait for another day. Leonhart had earned his rest, his rewards, and my unwavering support.

"I imagine he's upset that the thief wasn't a member of the Organization, don't you think?" I asked lightly and with a sly grin.

As I had hoped, the sadness vanished from Leonhart's face, and he grinned back at me. "As you were, Strife?" he teased. When I frowned at him, he laughed lightly and promised, "We'll have other opportunities in the future, I'm certain."

"I'll hold you to that, Leonhart," I teased back, and as I took a stick of ice cream for myself, I vowed internally that I most certainly would. Leonhart and I were in this together, and together, we would see it to the end.

End of "The Naval Treaty"

* * *

A/N: My inspiration well has been completely dry lately, and writing anything has been like pulling teeth. At least I finally got this one out. Hope you all enjoyed it.

On a separate note, I'm totally loving the new BBC series "Sherlock". Any fans who want to chat about it can feel free to contact me. :)


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